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ENGLISH  COMPOSITION 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION 


EIGHT  LECTURES  GIVEN  AT  THE  LOWELL 
INSTITUTE 


BY 

BARRETT  WENDELL 


ASSISTANT  PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  AT  HARVARD  COLLEGE 


REMOTt 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 
1893 


Copyright,  1891, 

By  Charles  Scribner’s  Sons. 


^Snttattg  Itas : 

John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


V7 

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NOTE. 

These  lectures  were  given  at  the  Lowell  Institute, 
Boston,  in  November  and  December,  1890.  Any 
student  of  the  subject  will  at  once  perceive  my  obliga- 
tion to  the  textbooks  of  Professor  A.  S.  Hill,  Pro- 
fessor Bain,  Professor  Genung,  and  the  late  Professor 
McElroy.  My  excuse  for  offering  a new  treatment  of 
the  subject  is  that  I have  found  none  that  seemed 
quite  simple  enough  for  popular  reading. 

B.  W. 

Boston,  September,  1891. 


O- 


CONTENTS. 


I. 

THE  ELEMENTS  AND  THE  QUALITIES  OF 
STYLE. 


Style  is  the  expression  of  thought  and  feeling  in  written  words.  All  style 
must  impress  us,  more  or  less,  in  three  ways,  — intellectually,  emotionally, 
and  aesthetically ; in  other  words,  it  must  possess  or  lack  Clearness,  Force, 
and  Elegance.  But  all  style  consists  solely  of  arbitrary  signs  — letters  — 
which  common  consent  makes  symbolic  of  arbitrary  sounds  — words  — 
which  common  consent  in  turn  makes  symbolic  of  the  immaterial  reality 
— thought  and  emotion  — which  forms  our  conscious  life.  In  choosing  words, 
we  must  be  governed  wholly  by  this  common  consent,  which  we  call  Good 
Use.  In  composing  words,  we  find  three  distinct  stages  of  composition,  — 
groups  of  words,  which  we  call  Sentences;  groups  of  sentences,  which  we 
call  Paragraphs;  and  larger  groups,  which  we  call  Whole  Compositions. 
In  making  any  of  these  compositions,  we  may  to  advantage  observe  three 
general  principles.  The  first,  the  principle  of  Unity,  concerns  the  substance 
of  a composition:  every  composition  should  group  itself  about  one  central 
idea.  The  second,  the  principle  of  Mass,  concerns  the  external  form  of 
a composition:  the  chief  parts  of  every  composition  should  be  so  placed 
as  readily  to  catch  the  eye.  The  third,  the  principle  of  Coherence,  con- 
cerns the  internal  arrangement  of  a composition:  the  relation  of  each  part 
of  a composition  to  its  neighbors  should  be  unmistakable.  In  composing 
sentences,  the  operation  of  these  principles  is  greatly  limited  by  good  use, 
in  the  form  of  grammar.  In  composing  paragraphs  and  whole  composi- 
tions, good  use  hampers  us  less  and  less.  And  all  style  may  be  re- 
garded as  the  result  of  a constant  conflict  between  good  use  and  the  prin- 
ciples of  composition Paye  1. 


yin 


CONTENTS. 


II. 

WORDS. 

Words  are  the  names  by  which  good  use  has  agreed  that  we  shall  describe 
ideas.  In  our  choice  of  words  we  may  never  stray  beyond  the  limits  of 
good  use.  In  judging  whether  a given  word  be  admissible,  we  may  best  ask 
ourselves  whether  it  is  a Barbarism  — a word  not  in  the  language  — or  an  Im- 
propriety, — a word  used  in  a sense  not  sanctioned  by  good  use.  If  neither, 
we  may  accept  it.  Within  the  limits  of  good  use  we  may  produce  widely 
various  effects  by  using,  for  different  purposes,  different  kinds  of  words  and 
different  numbers.  In  considering  these  effects,  we  should  keep  in  mind 
three  facts : first,  that  the  agreement  of  good  use  is  not  precise,  but  ap- 
proximate ; secondly,  that  every  word  we  use  does  not  exhaust  its 
power  by  identifying  the  single  idea  to  which  good  use  has  attached  it; 
but,  thirdly,  that  at  the  same  time  it  inevitably  suggests  a number  of 
other  ideas.  In  choosing  words,  then,  we  must  always  consider  two 
things,  — their  denotation,  what  they  name ; and  their  connotation,  what 
they  suggest  . Page  41. 


III. 

SENTENCES. 

A sentence  is  a series  of  words  so  composed  as  to  make  complete  sense. 
In  judging  whether  a given  sentence  be  grammatical,  — authorized  by  good 
use,  — we  may  best  inquire,  first,  whether  it  makes  good  sense,  and  if 
not,  whether  idiom  sanctions  it;  if  neither,  we  may  best  avoid  it  as  a Sole- 
cism. Within  the  limits  of  good  use  we  may  compose  various  kinds  of  sen- 
tences. To  all  these  kinds  we  may  apply  the  principles  of  Unity,  Mass,  and 
Coherence,  — principles  to  which  good  use  apparently  is  tending  to  conform. 
And  by  varying  our  kinds  of  sentences,  and  applying  to  all  kinds  the 
broadly  simple  principles  of  composition,  we  may  indefinitely  vary  our 
effects,  in  both  denotation  and  connotation Page  76. 


I Y. 

PARAGRAPHS. 


A paragraph  is  to  a sentence  what  a sentence  is  to  a word.  The  prin- 
ciples which  govern  the  arrangement  of  sentences  in  paragraphs,  then,  are 
identical  with  those  that  govern  the  arrangement  of  words  in  sentences. 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


And  as  paragraphs,  essentially  elements  of  written  discourse,  are  almost  un- 
trammelled by  good  use,  we  may  now  lay  down  these  principles  with  more 
decision.  A paragraph  should  generally  group  itself  about  one  central  idea; 
its  chief  ideas  should  generally  be  in  its  most  conspicuous  places;  and  the 
relation  of  each  sentence  to  the  context  should  generally  be  unmistakable. 
By  varying  the  arrangement  of  paragraphs,  and  by  constantly  applying 
these  principles,  we  may  indefinitely  vary  our  effects  in  denotation  and 
connotation  alike  Page  114. 


y. 

WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 

In  composing  whole  compositions,  we  are,  even  more  than  in  paragraphs, 
free  from  the  hampering  influence  of  good  use.  We  may,  then,  almost  un- 
checked, apply  to  our  work  the  principles  of  composition.  And  by  so  doing, 
we  may  almost  infinitely  vary  our  effects,  in  denotation  and  connotation 
alike Page  150. 


VL 

CLEARNESS. 

Clearness  is  the  distinguishing  quality  of  a style  that  cannot  be  mis- 
understood. It  is  a relative  quality;  but  a generally  clear  style  is  a style 
addressed  to  the  average  man.  To  write  with  clearness  we  must  of  course 
make  ourselves  as  certain  as  possible  of  what  we  wish  to  say.  Then, 
remembering  that  any  quality  of  style  can  be  conveyed  to  a reader  only 
by  means  of  our  choice  and  composition  of  the  elements,  we  may  ask 
ourselves  whether  the  elements  of  style  possess  any  trait  distinctly  favor- 
able to  clearness.  And  we  discover  that  the  secret  of  clearness  lies  in 
denotation page  193. 


VII. 

FORCE. 

Force  is  the  distinguishing  quality  of  a style  that  holds  the  attention.  It 
consists  in  such  choice  and  composition  of  the  elements  of  style  as  shall  not 
only  denote  our  meaning,  but  also  connote  the  emotions  we  have  in  mind. 
Tropes,— figures  of  speech,  — which  carry  the  process  of  forcible  selection 


X 


CONTENTS. 


one  step  further,  and  actually  name  a connotation,  leaving  the  denotation  to 
be  inferred,  are 'the  most  typical  devices  we  can  study  with  force  in  view. 
From  a study  of  them  we  are  brought  to  see  that  to  cultivate  force  we  must 
cultivate  ourselves  in  three  ways:  we  must  cultivate  our  perception  of  what 
we  would  express,  our  knowledge  of  the  human  beings  we  would  address, 
and  our  mastery  of  the  technical  methods  at  our  disposal.  We  must 
learn,  too,  the  limits  of  our  powers,  lest,  straying  too  near  them,  we  plainly 
reveal  them.  And  all  this  means  at  bottom  that  the  secret  of  force  lies  in 
connotation  Page  234. 


VIII. 

ELEGANCE. 

Elegance  is  the  distinguishing  quality  of  a style  that  pleases  the  taste.  As 
critics  of  style  we  must  not  concern  ourselves  with  substance,  but  must  grant 
a writer  the  privilege  of  choosing  what  thought  and  emotion  he  would  ex- 
press, and  confine  ourselves  to  considering  how  he  has  expressed  it.  So 
doing,  we  discover  that  the  secret  of  elegance  lies  in  the  most  exquisite 
possible  adaptation  of  our  means  to  our  end.  To  attain  elegance 
we  must  strive  to  develop  into  mastery  both  our  power  of  expression 
and  our  power  of  perception  in  life  and  in  art;  for  the  greater  our  mastery 
the  greater  our  power  of  adaptation.  And  the  secret  of  elegance  lies  in 
adaptation Page  272. 


IX. 

SUMMARY.  — Page  308. 


I. 


THE  ELEMENTS  AND  THE  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE. 

During  the  past  ten  years  I have  been  chiefly 
occupied  in  teaching,  to  undergraduates  of  Harvard 
College,  the  principles  of  English  Composition.  In 
the  course  of  that  time  I have  been  asked  a great 
many  questions  concerning  the  art,  mostly  by  friends 
who  found  themselves  writing  for  publication.  Widely 
different  as  these  inquiries  have  naturally  been,  they 
have  possessed  in  common  one  trait  sufficiently  marked 
to  place  them,  in  my  memory,  in  a single  group : almost 
without  exception,  they  have  concerned  themselves 
with  matters  of  detail.  Is  this  word  or  that  admissi- 
ble ? Why,  in  a piece  of  writing  I once  published,  did 
I permit  myself  to  use  the  apparently  commercial 
phrase  M at  any  rate  ” ? Are  not  words  of  Saxon  ori- 
gin invariably  preferable  to  all  others  ? Should  sen- 
tences be  long  or  short  ? These  random  memories  are 
sufficient  examples  of  many  hundreds  of  inquiries. 

They  have  in  common,  as  I have  just  said,  the  trait 
of  concerning  themselves  almost  wholly  with  matters 
of  detail.  They  have  too  another  trait : generally,  if 
not  invariably,  they  involve  a tacit  assumption  that 
any  given  case  must  be  either  right  or  wrong. 

l 


2 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


These  two  traits  — the  one  indicative  of  rather  sur- 
prising ignorance  of  the  nature  of  the  matter  in  hand, 
the  other  of  a profound  error  — are  what  has  prompted 
me  to  prepare  this  book.  Year  by  year  I have  seen 
more  and  more  clearly  that  although  the  work  of  a 
teacher  or  a technical  critic  of  style  concerns  itself 
largely  with  the  correction  of  erratic  detail,  the  really 
important  thing  for  one  who  would  grasp  the  subject 
to  master  is  not  a matter  of  detail  at  all,  but  a very 
simple  body  of  general  principles  under  which  details 
readily  group  themselves.  I have  seen  too  that  al- 
though a small  part  of  the  corrections  and  criticisms 
I have  had  to  make  are  concerned  with  matters  of 
positive  error,  by  far  the  greater,  and  incalculably  the 
more  important  part  are  concerned  with  what  I may 
call  matters  of  discretion.  The  question  is  not 
whether  a given  word  or  sentence  is  eternally  right 
or  wrong ; but  rather  how  accurately  it  expresses 
what  the  writer  has  to  say,  — whether  the  language  we 
use  may  not  afford  a different  and  perhaps  a better 
means  of  phrasing  his  idea. 

The  truth  is  that  in  rhetoric,  as  distinguished  from 
grammar,  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  questions 
that  arise  concern  not  right  or  wrong,  but  better  or 
worse ; and  that  the  way  to  know  what  is  better  or 
worse  in  any  given  case  is  not  to  load  your  memory 
with  bewilderingly  innumerable  rules,  but  firmly  to 
grasp  a very  few  simple,  elastic  general  principles. 
Consciously  or  not,  these  principles,  I believe,  are 
observed  by  thoroughly  effective  writers.  Of  course, 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  3 

nothing  but  long  and  patient  practice  can  make  any- 
body certain  of  writing,  or  of  practising  any  art,  well. 
Of  course  too  if  the  principles  I state  be,  as  I believe 
them,  fundamental,  whoever  practises  much  cannot 
help  in  some  degree  observing  them;  hut  the  expe- 
rience of  ten  years’  teaching  leads  me  more  and  more 
to  the  belief  that  a knowledge  of  the  principles  is  a 
very  great  help  in  practice. 

I may  best  begin,  I think,  by  stating  these  principles 
as  briefly  and  as  generally  as  I can.  Then  I shall  try 
to  show  how  they  apply  to  the  more  important  spe- 
cific cases  that  present  themselves  to  writers.  Each 
case,  I think,  presents  them  in  a somewhat  new  light. 
Certainly,  without  considering  them  in  various  aspects 
we  can  hardly  appreciate  their  full  scope.  First  of  all, 
it  will  be  convenient  to  fix  a term  which  shall  express 
the  whole  subject  under  consideration.  I know  of 
none  more  precise  than  Style.  A good  deal  of  usage,, 
to  be  sure,  and  rather  good  usage  too,  gives  color  to 
the  general  impression  that  style  means  good  styler 
just  as  criticism  is  often  taken  to  mean  unfavorable 
criticism , or  manners  to  mean  civil  behavior.  Very  ex- 
cellent authorities  sometimes  declare  that  a given 
writer  has  style,  and  another  none ; only  a little  while 
ago,  I heard  a decidedly  careful  talker  congratulate 
himself  on  having  at  last  discovered,  in  this  closing 
decade  of  the  nineteenth  century,  a correspondent 
who,  in  spite  of  our  thickening  environment  of  news- 
papers and  telegrams,  wrote  letters  that  possessed 
style.  I dwell  on  this  common  meaning  of  the  word 


4 ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 

style  for  two  reasons : in  the  first  place,  clearly  to  de- 
fine the  sense  in  which  I mean  not  to  use  the  word  ; 
in  the  second  place,  to  emphasize  the  fact,  which  we 
shall  find  to  be  highly  important,  that  in  the  present 
state  of  the  English  language  hardly  any  word  not 
unintelligibly  technical  can  be  trusted  to  express  a 
precise  meaning  without  the  aid  of  definition.  Style , 
as  I shall  use  the  term,  means  simply  the  expression 
of  thought  or  emotion  in  written  words ; it  applies 
equally  to  an  epic,  a sermon,  a love-letter,  an  invitation 
to  an  evening  party. 

This  definition  brings  us  face  to  face  with  an  obvi- 
ous trait  which  the  art  we  are  considering  shares  with 
all  the  other  arts  of  expression,  — painting,  sculpture, 
architecture,  music,  and  indeed  those  humbler  arts, 
not  commonly  recognized  as  fine,  where  the  workman 
conceives  something  not  yet  in  existence  (a  machine, 
a flower-pot,  a sauce)  and  proceeds,  by  collaboration 
of  brain  and  hand,  to  give  it  material  existence. 
Thought  and  emotion,  the  substance  of  what  style  ex- 
presses, are  things  so  common,  so  incessant  in  earthly 
experience,  that  we  trouble  ourselves  to  consider  them 
as  little  as  we  bother  our  heads  about  the  marvels 
of  sunrise,  of  the  growth  of  flowers  or  men,  of  the 
mystery  of  sin  or  death,  when  they  do  not  happen  to 
touch  our  pockets  or  our  affections.  But  for  all  that 
they  are  with  us  from  morning  till  night,  and  not  sel- 
dom from  night  till  morning,  — for  all  that  together 
they  make  up  the  total  sum  of  what  to  most  of  us  is 
a very  commonplace  affair,  our  earthly  existence,  — 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  5 

thought  and  emotion,  when  we  stop  to  consider  them, 
are  the  most  fascinatingly  marvellous  facts  that  human 
beings  can  contemplate.  They  are  real  beyond  all 
other  realities.  What  things  are,  no  man  can  ever 
know ; analyzed  by  astronomy,  the  material  universe 
vanishes  in  infinite  systems  of  spheres  revolving  about 
one  another  throughout  infinitely  extended  regions  of 
space,  in  obedience  to  law  that  may  be  recognized,  but 
not  comprehended;  analyzed  by  physics,  this  same 
material  universe  vanishes  again  in  infinitely  small 
systems  of  molecules  bound  together  by  the  same 
mysterious  forces  that  govern  the  stellar  universe. 
The  more  we  study  the  more  we  learn  that  neither 
the  heavens  nor  the  very  paper  on  which  I write 
these  words  are  what  they  seem,  and  that  what  they 
really  are  is  far  beyond  the  perception  of  any  faculty 
which  the  history  of  the  human  race  can  lead  us 
rationally  to  hope  for  even  in  our  most  remote  poster- 
ity. But  what  we  think  of  all  these  marvels,  the 
forms  in  which  they  present  themselves  to  us,  we 
know  as  we  know  nothing  else.  Our  whole  lives,  from 
the  day  when  our  eyes  first  open  to  the  sunlight,  are 
constant  series  of  thoughts,  sometimes  seemingly 
springing  from  within  ourselves,  often  seeming  to 
come  from  without  ourselves,  through  the  medium  of 
those  senses  that  in  careless  moods  we  are  apt  to  think 
so  comprehensive.  To  each  and  all  of  us,  the  final 
reality  of  life  is  the  thought,  which,  with  the  endless 
surge  of  emotion, — now  tempestuous,  again  almost  im- 
perceptible,— makes  up  conscious  existence. 


6 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


Final  realities  though  they  be,  however,  thought 
and  emotion  are  essentially  things  that  in  our  habitual 
thoughtlessness  we  are  apt  to  call  unreal.  As  we 
know  them,  they  are  immaterial.  No  systems  can 
measure  their  extent  or  their  bulk ; and  though  they 
are  in  some  degree  conditioned  by  time,  it  is  so 
slightly  that  we  may  almost  say  — as  in  a single 
instant  our  thought  ranges  from  primeval  nebulae 
to  cosmic  death  and  celestial  eternity  — they  are  free 
from  time-limit,  as  well  as  from  the  limits  of  space. 
Real  at  once,  then,  and  unreal,  or  better,  real  and  in- 
tangible, real  yet  immaterial,  each  of  us  who  will  stop 
to  think  must  find  the  thought  and  the  emotion  that 
together  make  that  fresh  marvel,  — himself.  Each  of 
us,  I say  purposely ; for  there  is  one  more  thing  that  we 
must  remember  here.  Like  one  another  as  we  seem, 
like  one  another  as  the  courses  of  our  lives  may  look, 
there  are  no  two  human  beings  who  tread  quite  the 
same  road  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  No  one  of 
us  in  any  group  has  come  from  quite  the  same  origin 
as  any  other ; no  two,  be  they  twin  brothers  or  hus- 
band and  wife,  can  go  thence  by  quite  the  same  path. 
The  laws  of  space  and  of  time  forbid;  unspeakably 
more  the  still  more  mysterious  laws  of  thought 
forbid  that  any  two  of  us  should  know  and  feel 
just  the  same  experience  in  this  world.  If  two  or 
three  of  us,  habitually  together,  suddenly  utter  the 
same  word,  we  are  surprised.  The  thought  and 
emotion  of  every  living  being,  then,  is  an  immate- 
rial reality,  eternally  different  from  every  other  in 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  7 

the  universe ; and  this  is  the  reality  that  style  must 
express. 

And  style,  we  remember,  must  express  this  reality 
in  written  words  ; and  written  words  are  things  as 
tangible,  as  material,  as  the  thought  and  emotion  be- 
hind them  is  immaterial,  evanescent,  elusive.  The 
task  of  the  writer,  then,  is  a far  more  subtile  and 
wonderful  thing  than  we  are  apt  to  think  it : nothing 
less  than  to  create  a material  body,  that  all  men  may 
see,  for  an  eternally  immaterial  reality  that  only 
through  this  imperfect  symbol  can  ever  reveal  itself 
to  any  but  the  one  human  being  who  knows  it  he 
knows  not  how. 

When  a piece  of  style  — a poem,  a book,  an  essay,, 
a letter  — is  once  in  existence,  it  may  perhaps  best  be 
considered  for  the  moment  from  the  point  of  view  of 
readers,  of  those  to  whom  it  is  addressed.  Any  piece 
of  style,  we  all  know,  impresses  us  in  a fairly  distinct 
way,  which  we  rarely  take  the  trouble  to  define. 
Most  readers  never  know  more  about  it  than  that  it 
interests  or  pleases  them,  or  bores  or  annoys.  A little 
consideration,  however,  will  show,  I think,  that  the 
undefined  impression  which  any  piece  of  style  makes 
may  always  be  resolved  into  three  parts.  Present 
in  widely  different  degrees  in  different  pieces  of  style r 
no  one  of  these  factors  can  ever,  I believe,  be  asserted 
quite  absent.  In  the  first  place,  you  either  understand 
the  piece  of  style  before  you,  or  do  not  understand  it,, 
or  feel  more  or  less  in  doubt  whether  you  understand 
it  or  not.  In  the  second  place,  you  are  either  inter- 


8 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


ested,  or  bored,  or  left  indifferent.  Finally,  you  are 
either  pleased,  or  displeased,  or  doubtful  whether  you 
are  pleased  or  not.  And  the  more  you  analyze  your 
impressions  of  style  the  more  you  will  find,  unless 
your  experience  differs  surprisingly  from  most,  that 
the  third  state  of  things  I suggest  — indifference  or 
doubt  — is  the  rarest.  In  short,  every  piece  of  style 
may  be  said  to  impress  readers  in  three  ways,  — in- 
tellectually, emotionally,  aesthetically ; to  appeal  to 
their  understanding,  their  feelings,  their  taste.  Every 
quality  of  style  that  I know  of  may  be  reduced  to 
one  of  these  three  classes ; and  these  three  — and 
these  three  only  — are  different  enough  to  deserve 
distinct  and  careful  consideration.  Briefly,  then,  I 
may  say  that  the  qualities  of  style  are  three,  — intel- 
lectual, emotional,  and  86sthetic.  It  is  convenient  to 
name  these  qualities ; the  terms  I choose  are  on  the 
whole  the  best  I have  found,  — those  which  Professor 
Hill,  of  Harvard  College,  uses  in  the  most  sensible 
treatment  of  the  art  of  composition  I have  yet  found 
in  print.  To  the  intellectual  quality  of  style  he  gives 
the  name  “ Clearness  ; ” to  the  emotional,  “ Force  ; ” 
to  the  aesthetic,  “ Elegance.” 

To  define  this  generalization,  a concrete  example  is 
perhaps  worth  while.  In  choosing  one  from  personal 
experience,  I commit  what  many  may  call  a positive 
sin  of  egotism.  My  defence  must  rest  on  what  I have 
said  already.  Style  is  the  expression  in  words  of 
thought  and  emotion ; each  man’s  thought  and  emo- 
tion differs  from  every  other  man’s.  I confess  to  a 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  9 

growing  belief  that  the  best  thing  any  one  can  do, 
when  occasion  serves,  is  to  tell  us  what  he  himself 
knows.  It  may  be  of  small  value,  but  at  worst  it 
is  not  second-hand.  When  Robert  Browning  died, 
then,  I found  running  in  my  head  two  lines  from  a 
poem  of  his  I had  read  some  years  before  — the 
“ Grammarian’s  Funeral,”  — 

“ This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm,  and  dead, 

% Borne  on  our  shoulders.” 

I remembered  of  the  poem  only  that  it  was  a long 
funeral  chorus,  if  I may  use  the  term,  put  into  the 
mouths  of  the  pupils  of  an  old  Italian  professor.  At 
daybreak,  one  fifteenth-century  morning,  they  are 
bearing  him  up  to  his  grave  in  one  of  the  hill-cities 
of  Central  Italy.  I turned  to  the  poem  and  read  it 
through;  I was  deeply  interested  from  beginning  to 
end.  I thought  the  poem,  as  I think  it  still,  pro- 
foundly characteristic  of  the  writer  in  that  it  is  among 
the  permanently  forcible  pieces  of  our  literature.  On 
the  other  hand,  when  I had  finished  the  reading,  I 
had  very  little  more  notion  of  what  the  poem  meant 
in  detail  than  I had  had  before ; again  I found  it  pro- 
foundly characteristic  of  the  writer,  in  that  on  a single 
reading  it  was  about  as  far  from  clear  as  human  per- 
versity could  make  it.  Finally,  in  spite  of  the  un- 
doubted fact  that  there  was  in  it  something  which 
not  only  interested  but  fascinated  me,  I found  only 
one  passage  that  at  first  reading  thoroughly  pleased 
me : — 


10 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


“ Sleep,  crop  and  herd.  Sleep,  darkling  thorp  and  cioft? 
Safe  from  the  weather  ! 

He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 

He  was  a man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo  ! ” 

And  even  the  pleasure  I found  In  the  full-throated 
melody  of  this  refreshingly  simple  passage  was  marred 
by  the  thought  that  before  I could  be  sure  of  what  a 
thorp  is  or  a croft,  I should  have  to  consult  a diction- 
ary. Elegance,  then,  save  for  the  splendidly  sus- 
tained funereal  rhythm,  I found  as  notable  for  its 
absence  as  clearness ; herein,  again,  the  poem  was 
profoundly  characteristic  of  the  writer.  But  for  all 
its  lack  of  clearness  and  elegance,  the  poem  had  a 
force  I could  not  resist ; I read  it  over  again  and 
again.  Each  reading  made  it  clearer ; each  gain  in 
clearness  diminished  in  some  degree  the  annoyance  I 
felt  in  its  apparently  deliberate  perversity  of  diction  ; 
and  now,  after  some  dozens  of  readings,  I think  I can 
understand  at  least  nine  lines  out  of  every  ten,  and  I 
am  sure  that  I find  in  the  poem  both  an  emotional 
stimulus  that  constantly  strengthens,  and  a constantly 
growing  if  permanently  incomplete  delight. 

In  all  pieces  of  style  as  truly  as  in  this  “ Gram- 
marian’s Funeral,”  clearness,  force,  and  elegance  — 
or  their  absence  — may  readily  be  detected.  The 
question  that  naturally  presents  itself  now  is  how 
they  are  produced.  To  answer  this  we  must  ap- 
proach the  subject  afresh,  and  ask  ourselves  not  what 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  11 

we  have  experienced,  but  what  we  have  seen.  Clearly, 
we  have  seen  nothing  but  written  or  printed  words, 
— black  marks  on  white  paper.  It  is  something 
inherent  in  these  black  marks  which  has  produced 
the  knowledge  or  the  ignorance  or  the  puzzle,  the 
interest  or  the  tedium,  the  pleasure  or  the  annoy- 
ance, of  which  we  are  conscious.  For  the  moment, 
then,  we  must  turn  our  attention  to  these  written 
words,  these  curious  black  marks,  and  satisfy  our- 
selves, if  we  can,  what  there  is  in  them  to  produce 
such  notable  results. 

In  themselves,  these  black  marks  are  nothing  but 
black  marks  more  or  less  regular  in  appearance. 
Modern  English  type  and  script  are  rather  simple  to 
the  eye.  Old  English  and  German  are  less  so ; less 
so  still,  Hebrew  and  Chinese.  But  all  alphabets  pre- 
sent to  the  eye  pretty  obvious  traces  of  regularity  ; in 
a written  or  printed  page  the  same  mark  will  occur 
over  and  over  again.  This  is  positively  all  we  see,  — 
a number  of  marks  grouped  together  and  occasionally 
repeated.  A glance  at  a mummy-case,  an  old-fash- 
ioned tea-chest,  a Hebrew  Bible,  will  show  us  all  that 
any  eye  can  ever  see  in  any  written  or  printed  docu- 
ment. The  outward  and  visible  body  of  style  consists 
of  a limited  number  of  marks  which,  for  all  any 
reader  is  apt  to  know,  are  purely  arbitrary. 

Whoever  knows  an  alphabet,  however,  as  all  of  us 
know  the  twenty-six  letters  that  compose  written 
English,  sees  in  these  black  marks,  not  the  marxs 
themselves,  but  the  ideas  they  stand  for.  In  a rough 


12 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


way  — a very  rough  way  in  English  — each  of  these 
marks  is  a symbol  which  stands  for  one  of  a limited 
number  of  articulate  sounds.  The  sounds  for  which 
some  of  them  stand  — 5,  for  example,  r,  &,  s — are 
very  well  fixed  ; the  sounds  for  which  others  stand 
— c , notably,  and  most  of  the  vowels  — are  various. 
But  in  almost  any  given  case,  a reasonably  trained 
eye  recognizes  at  a glance  what  sound  a given  mark 
stands  for.  Now,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  there  is  no 
relation  whatever  between  the  symbol  in  question  and 
the  sound,  — not  so  much  as  there  is  between  the 
black  marks  on  a sheet  of  music  and  the  notes  the 
musician  produces  in  obedience  to  them,  for  these  at 
least  run  up  and  down  the  scale  as  the  marks  are 
higher  or  lower  on  the  written  page.  What  gives  to 
letters  the  significance  which  we  all  understand  al- 
most intuitively  is  simply  and  solely  the  tacit  agree- 
ment of  the  people  who  have  used  them.  The  only 
reason  why  we  should  not  spell  schooner  as  a small 
boy  lately  spelled  it  — squner  — is  that  the  prac- 
tice of  a century  or  so  agrees  that  it  should  be  spelled 
otherwise ; and  that  the  practice  of  a number  of  cen- 
turies and  languages  agrees  that  in  the  compound 
letter  qu,  the  u has  no  open  vowel-sound.  What 
makes  us  see  in  these  black  marks,  then,  the  sounds 
the  writers  mean  them  to  symbolize  is  exactly  what 
prevents  us  from  seeing  in  Chinese  or  Arabic  writing 
anything  more  than  the  marks  themselves  : in  the  one 
case  we  are  familiar  with  the  practice  on  which  those 
who  use  the  letters  are  tacitly  agreed ; in  the  other 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  13 


we  are  not.  Common  consent,  general  practice,  is 
what  makes  the  English  alphabet  signify  anything. 
In  this  fact  lies  the  rather  comical  hopelessness  of 
the  efforts  now  and  then  made  by  innocent  dog- 
matists, not  possessed  of  despotic  authority,  to  reform 
spelling ; for  spelling,  like  other  things  we  shall 
consider  in  a moment,  is  a matter,  not  of  law,  but  of 
practice.  The  question  in  a given  instance  is  not 
what  ought  to  he  the  case,  but  what  is.  And  to  the 
state  of  things  which  enables  us  to  decide  in  spelling, 
as  in  other  fashions,  what  the  case  is  at  any  given 
moment,  we  give,  for  convenience’  sake,  the  name 
“ Good  Use.” 

I have  dwelt  on  this  elementary  phase  of  good  use 
because  the  reason  why  the  articulate  sounds  these 
black  marks  symbolize  are  anything  more  to  us  than 
meaningless  noises  is  precisely  the  same  as  the  reason 
why  letters  are  anything  more  than  meaningless 
marks.  Language,  as  the  very  origin  of  the  word 
shows,  — it  means  almost  exactly  what  we  sometimes 
express  by  its  synonym  tongue , — is  originally  spoken. 
Utterance,  in  the  history  of  the  human  race,  indefi- 
nitely precedes  writing.  But  language  itself  consists 
at  bottom  only  of  a limited  number  of  articulate 
sounds,  mostly  as  arbitrary  to  our  ears  as  the  marks 
that  stand  for  them  are  to  our  eyes.  Our  own  lan- 
guage, and  perhaps  a few  others,  we  understand  so 
intuitively  that  we  are  apt  to  forget  how  purely  arbi- 
trary they  are  ; but  we  have  only  to  listen  to  the  talk 
of  foreigners  — even  of  Europeans,  far  more  of  grunt- 


14 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


ing  Indians  or  clicking  Hottentots  — to  be  reminded 
that  the  sounds  we  hear  and  utter  are  purely  symbolic, 
and  that  we  understand  them  only  because  we  happen 
to  know  what  the  practice,  the  common  consent,  the 
good  use,  of  those  who  use  them  has  agreed  that  they 
shall  stand  for. 

Perhaps  the  simplest  way  of  realizing  how  all  lan- 
guage is  originally  formed  is  just  to  recall  how  we 
come  to  know  people  by  name.  We  meet  for  the  first 
time  a man  of  whom  we  know  nothing  except  that  he 
is  clothed  and  to  all  appearances  in  his  right  mind. 
Somebody  tells  us  that  his  name  is  John  Jones  ; there- 
after, when  we  wish  to  mention  him,  we  utter  the 
monosyllables  — in  themselves  mere  arbitrary  sounds 
— John  Jones.  Pretty  soon  the  syllables  in  question 
cease  to  be  arbitrary  sounds,  and  arouse  in  our  minds 
the  extremely  specific  idea  of  a human  individual, 
washed,  dressed,  and  amiably  disposed,  — eternally 
different  too  in  certain  aspects  from  any  other  human 
being  on  the  planet.  Or,  to  take  a quite  different  ex- 
ample : Some  years  ago  I happened  to  be  in  a small 
Sicilian  town,  infested  by  contagiously  good-humored 
beggars.  When  they  pressed  about  me  inconveniently, 
I turned  on  them,  and  uttered,  among  other  expres- 
sions unhappily  not  remarkable  for  politeness,  the 
word  skedaddle.  Somehow  it  caught  their  fancy : 
“ Skedaddo  ! ” they  shouted  in  chorus.  When  I next 
went  out  of  doors,  I was  greeted  with  shouts  of  “ Buon 
giorno,  skedaddo ! ” The  rascals  had  named  me,  and 
called  me  by  the  name  for  the  remaining  hours  of  my 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  15 

stay  among  them ; and  a Sicilian  gentleman  subse- 
quently told  me  that  very  probably  the  word  ske- 
daddo  might  become,  in  the  town  in  question,  a 
permanent  generic  noun  signifying  a light-haired  for- 
eigner of  excitable  disposition. 

Just  as  we  name  or  nickname  people,  our  ancestors 
have  named  and  nicknamed  the  various  ideas  which 
in  the  course  of  their  history  they  have  had  occasion 
to  express.  Nowadays  there  are  in  the  world  a great 
many  different  languages,  many  of  which,  now  mutu- 
ally unintelligible,  may  easily  be  traced  to  a common 
origin  ; from  Latin,  for  example,  have  sprung  French, 
Italian,  Spanish,  Portuguese.  But  the  numerous 
changes  whose  accumulation  has  separated  and  dis- 
tinguished these  modern  languages  have  all  taken 
place  by  means  of  local  and  increasing  differences  in 
use,  — in  consent  as  to  what  a given  sound  shall 
mean.  Thus,  from  Anglo-Saxon  and  Norman-French 
has  sprung  the  curious  hybrid  English  with  which  we 
are  chiefly  concerned, — the  articulate  sounds  by  which 
the  people  of  England  and  her  dependencies  have 
been  agreed,  during  the  past  four  or  five  centuries,  to 
express  whatever  thoughts  and  emotions  they  have 
known. 

Now,  the  first  question  before  any  one  who  would 
use  the  English  language  efficiently  — as  a vehicle  by 
which  thought  and  emotion  may  be  conveyed  to  some- 
body else  — is  what  words  are  at  his  disposal.  It  is 
clear  that  we  must  use  the  words  — the  articulate 
sounds  — to  which  the  English-speaking  peoples  of 


16 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


the  present  time  agree  to  attach  definite  significance  ; 
and  what  these  words  are  we  can  discover  only  by 
such  constant  observation  and  care  of  what  is  going 
on  about  us  in  the  whole  English-speaking  world  as  a 
child  or  a foreigner  would  give  to  a language  he  was 
trying  to  learn.  Dictionaries  and  grammars,  to  be 
sure,  may  codify  what  exists  at  any  given  moment. 
Regarded  as  codes,  they  are  invaluable ; but  at  best 
they  are  codes  of  common  law,  not  legislative  enact- 
ments. The  only  sanction  behind  them  is  that  of 
practice,  of  usage.  Before  we  can  use  language  with 
certainty  we  must  understand  that  beneath  all  these 
codes  lies  the  great  fact  of  common  human  consent. 
We  must  learn  instinctively  to  feel  this  for  ourselves, 
to  appreciate  it,  to  judge  it.  In  English,  as  in  every 
other  language,  the  final  test  of  what  words  we  may 
use  is  inevitably  the  usage  of  those  who  speak  and 
write  it ; the  test  of  what  words  we  should  use  is  the 
usage  of  those  who  speak  and  write  it  best,  — in  other 
words,  good  use. 

To  illustrate  this,  we  may  well  consider  the  differ- 
ence that  always  exists  between  the  words  we  our- 
selves speak  and  those  we  write.  Closely  similar, 
written  language  and  spoken  are  yet  inevitably  differ- 
ent. Whoever  says  habitually,  “ He  does  not,”  or,  “ I 
will  not,”  talks  not  like  a human  being,  but  like  a 
prig ; whoever  habitually  writes,  “ He  does  n’t,”  or,  “ I 
won’t,”  writes  with  something  like  vulgarity.  For 
general  purposes  we  speak  the  language  of  the  people 
we  address,  with  all  its  colloquialisms.  In  writing, 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  IT 

which  we  use  to  communicate  thought  and  emotion  to 
we  know  not  whom  nor  how  many,  we  must  carefully 
employ  only  such  forms  as  good  use,  in  its  broadest 
sense,  sanctions. 

We  are  now  in  a position  to  answer  the  question  we 
asked  ourselves  a little  while  ago.  Why  is  it,  we 
asked,  that  a certain  number  of  apparently  arbitrary 
black  marks  on  white  pages  should  convey  to  us  all 
the  infinitely  varied  impressions  — intellectual,  emo- 
tional, aesthetic  — that  we  find  in  literature  ? Why 
is  it  that  style  — whose  visible  body  is  never  anything 
more  or  less  than  these  black  marks  — should  impress 
us  primarily  as  something  that  possesses  or  lacks 
Clearness,  Force,  and  Elegance  ? Simply  and  solely 
because  the  tacit  agreement,  the  good  use  of  many 
generations  of  human  beings,  who  at  least  linguisti- 
cally are  our  ancestors,  has  consented  in  the  first  place 
that  certain  articulate  sounds  shall  be  fixed  as  symbols 
for  certain  distinct  ideas,  and  in  the  second  place  that 
certain  arbitrary  marks  shall  be  fixed  as  symbols  for 
certain  distinct  sounds.  Good  use,  and  good  use  alone, 
is  the  basis  on  which  all  style  rests.  A knowledge  of 
good  use  so  familiar  as  to  be  practically  instinctive  is 
the  basis  on  which  any  writer  who  would  be  certain 
to  write  with  clearness,  force,  and  elegance  must 
ultimately  rest  his  own  style.  The  limits  of  good  use 
are  wide  and  flexible ; but  finally  they  grow  rigid. 
Whoever  strays  beyond  them  errs ; whoever  keeps 
within  them  may  write,  for  various  reasons,  ineffec- 
tively, but  cannot  be  convicted  of  nositive  error. 


18 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


Every  question  of  positive  right  and  wrong  in  style 
is  a question  concerning  nothing  whatever  but  good 
use. 

Good,  use,  then,  must  be  the  basis  of  all  good  style. 
The  next  thing  to  ask  ourselves  is  how  to  recognize 
good  use.  And  here  we  are  met  by  a fact  that, 
more  than  any  other  I know  of,  confuses  most  people 
who  begin  seriously  to  consider  the  matter  in  ques- 
tion. For  various  reasons,  the  chief  of  which  is  that 
five  centuries  ago  pretty  much  everything  worth  read- 
ing was  comprised  in  what  survived  of  the  literatures 
of  Greece  and  Home,  the  education  of  civilized  Euro- 
peans and  Americans  is  still  based  on  a prolonged 
and  not  always  very  fruitful  study  of  classical  Latin 
and  Greek.  Now,  what  makes  Latin  or  Greek  letters 
stand  for  Latin  or  Greek  words,  and  what  makes 
Latin  or  Greek  words  stand  for  the  thoughts  and 
emotions  which  are  not  only  Latin  and  Greek,  but 
broadly  human  too,  is  precisely  what  makes  English 
letters  and  words  stand  for  the  thoughts  and  emo- 
tions that  make  up  our  conscious  lives  ; namely,  that 
many  thousands  of  human  beings  tacitly  agreed  what 
this  double  system  of  symbols  should  symbolize,  and 
so  that  good  use  arose.  But  between  the  classical 
languages,  which  we  call  dead,  and  the  modern  lan- 
guages, whose  life  is  more  vigorous  than  the  life  of 
any  human  being,  there  is  a broad  distinction,  not 
very  often  kept  in  mind.  Good  use,  like  all  other 
vital  things,  not  only  comes  into  being  and  flourishes, 
but  it  passes  out  of  being  too;  and  Latin  use  and 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  19 

Greek  passed  out  of  being  with  the  nations  whose  po- 
litical and  intellectual  lives  they  expressed.  So  com- 
pletely are  they  things  of  the  past,  indeed,  that  so  far 
as  I can  learn  from  friends  who  have  given  their  lives 
to  the  classics,  nobody  to-day  on  earth  has  any  real 
knowledge  of  how  Latin  or  Greek  was  pronounced.  At 
Harvard  College,  and  elsewhere,  to  be  sure,  they  have 
supplanted  the  unquestionably  barbarous  English  pro- 
nunciation by  one  which  they  call  probably  ancient ; 
but  whether  Pericles  or  Cicero  could  understand  the 
most  punctiliously  learned  nineteenth-century  pro- 
fessor is  a question  not  to  be  settled  this  side  of 
Elysium.  In  short,  though  we  know  pretty  accurately 
what  words  classical  letters  symbolize,  and  what 
thoughts  and  emotions  are  symbolized  by  classical 
words,  one  part  of  the  classical  languages  — the 
sound,  the  thing  that  made  them  true  languages  or 
tongues  — is  as  dead  as  Alexander  or  Caesar.  And 
along  with  the  sound  has  perished  the  vital  principle 
of  the  languages,  — the  constantly  changing  use  which 
brought  them  from  the  rude  jargons  in  which  they 
began  into  the  exquisitely  finished  forms  in  which 
their  literatures  preserve  them.  In  other  words,  the 
classical  languages,  like  other  things  that  have  passed 
out  of  this  world,  are  complete.  Nothing  but  the  occa- 
sional discovery  of  a manuscript  or  an  inscription  can 
add  a syllable  to  them  ; nothing  but  the  demonstra- 
tion of  a corruption  or  a forgery  can  take  a syllable 
away.  Nothing,  in  all  human  probability,  can  supply 
the  place  of  that  troublesome  caret  which  used  to 


20 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


bother  us  so  much  in  the  old  Latin  grammars.  Here 
lies  the  distinction  between  the  classical  languages 
and  the  modern,  the  dead  and  the  living.  Latin  and 
Greek  are  complete ; dictionaries  and  grammars  can 
codify  them  with  final  authority.  English,  on  the 
other  hand,  like  every  living  tongue,  must  remain  in- 
complete so  long  as  it  retains  life  enough  to  be  spoken 
and  written  by  living  men;  and  so  dictionaries  and 
grammars  can  at  most  be  mile-stones  in  its  progress 
through  this  world. 

Now,  of  course  the  unlearned  in  matters  of  style 
look  for  authority  to  the  learned.  And  the  learned, 
brought  up  from  childhood  on  the  authority,  in  mat- 
ters of  classical  style,  of  Latin  and  Greek  dictionaries 
and  grammars,  are  accustomed  to  display  what  lit- 
tle human  frailty  survives  the  process  of  culture  by 
attaching  to  dictionaries  and  grammars  themselves 
an  importance  second  only  to  that  which  good  men 
attach  to  Holy  Writ.  They  do  not  stop  to  re- 
member, or  at  all  events  to  remind  ns,  that  what 
makes  Latin  and  Greek  books  of  reference  so  finally 
authoritative  is  not  that  they  are  books  of  reference, 
but  that  the  languages  therein  codified  have  long 
since  ceased  to  grow;  and  so  that  these  tongues 
can  be  codified  with  something  which  approaches 
perfection. 

To  be  certain  of  what  good  use  is  in  a living  lan- 
guage, then,  we  must  have  other  things  to  rest  our 
case  on  than  the  fact  that  some  maker  of  dictionaries 
or  grammars  has  registered  — and  given  chapter 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  21 

and  verse  for  — the  words  or  phrases  we  would  de- 
fend. There  are  other  tests  of  good  use  to  which  we 
must  turn.  The  most  notable,  I think,  are  that  it 
must  be  Reputable,  National,  and  Present,  — Reputa- 
ble as  distinguished  from  vulgar,  slangy,  eccentric ; 
National  as  distinguished  from  local  or  technical ; 
Present  as  distinguished  from  obsolete  or  transient. 
In  view  of  the  fact  that  every  question  of  right  or 
wrong  in  style  must  ultimately  be  referred  to  good  use, 
these  three  phases  of  good  use  are  worth  separate 
attention. 

Reputable  use  is  the  use  of  no  single  writer,  how- 
ever eminent ; it  is  the  common  consent  of  the  great 
body  of  writers  whose  works,  taken  together,  make 
up  what  we  mean  when  we  seriously  use  the  term 
English  Literature,  — a term  which  of  course  includes 
any  literature  written  in  the  English  language, 
Scotch,  Irish,  American,  Australian.  The  fact  that 
Shakspere  uses  a word,  or  Sir  Walter  Scott,  or  Burke, 
or  Washington  Irving,  or  whoever  happens  to  be 
writing  earnestly  in  Melbourne  or  Sidney,  does  not 
make  it  reputable.  The  fact  that  all  five  of  these 
authorities  use  the  word  in  the  same  sense  would  go 
very  far  to  establish  the  usage.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  fact  that  any  number  of  newspaper  reporters  agree 
in  usage  does  not  make  the  usage  reputable.  The 
style  of  newspaper  reporters  is  not  without  merit ; it 
is  very  rarely  unreadable ; but  for  all  its  virtue  it  is 
rarely  a well  of  English  undefiled.  And  just  here,  I 
may  say,  lies  perhaps  the  most  crying  fault  of  con- 


22 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


temporary  style  in  general.  For  better  or  worse,  the 
fact  remains  that  our  grandfathers  used  to  read  the 
Bible  morning  and  night,  and  that  we  read  instead  the 
morning  and  evening  newspapers.  Our  spontaneous 
vocabularies  differ  from  theirs  accordingly,  — not 
wholly  for  the  better.  And  when,  now  and  then, 
somebody  raises  a feeble  voice  in  protest,  the  reporters, 
who  as  a class  are  very  human  beings,  grow  much 
excited,  forgetting  that  no  known  system  of  logic 
can  warrant  the  conclusion  that  because  all  good 
style  is  readable,  all  readable  style  is  necessarily 
good. 

But  an  example  or  two  of  style  that  is  national  and 
present,  but  not  reputable,  and  so  not  good,  will  make 
the  matter  clearer  than  all  the  generalization  in  the 
world.  In  Mr.  Mallock’s  u New  Republic,”  you  may 
remember,  is  a tale  of  how  a fastidious  gentleman  re- 
frained from  offering  himself  to  a pretty  girl  because 
she  asked  him  if  he  was  partial  to  boiled  chicken.  In 
any  newspaper  you  may  find  a comfortable  house  de- 
scribed as  an  “ elegant  residence  ” or  a “ costly  home 
and  so  on. 

National  use  is  the  use  of  neither  England,  Ireland, 
Scotland,  America,  nor  Australia ; nor  yet  of  any  sin- 
gle body  of  men,  however  learned.  It  is  the  use  which 
is  sanctioned  by  the  common  consent  of  the  whole 
English-speaking  world.  Whoever  uses  technical 
words,  or  foreign,  or  local,  violates  this  rule  of  good 
use.  The  use  of  technical  words,  still  more  the  use  of 
foreign,  is  commonly  a conscious  affectation,  which  any 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OE  STYLE.  23 

sane  man  may  avoid.  The  use  of  local  terms  is  often 
spontaneous  ; here  lies  the  chief  danger  of  falling  into 
a style  not  national. 

A few  examples  of  style  that  is  reputable  and  pres- 
ent, but  not  national,  and  so  not  good,  will  make  the 
matter  clear.  44  Ecteronic  appendages ,”  I find  in  the 
first  book  of  physiology  I open,  44  not  found  in  man, 
make  their  appearance  in  other  animals.”  44 1 
noticed  a dirty  gamin”  writes  a student ; and 
another,  using  a word  now  confined  at  Harvard  Col- 
lege to  street  urchins,  describes  the  same  small  boy  as 
a mucker. 

Present  use  is  best  described,  I think,  in  the  famil- 
iar lines  of  Pope  : — 

“ In  words  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will  hold  : 

Alike  fantastic  if  too  new  or  old. 

Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  tried, 

Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside.,, 

These  lines  mention  a very  suggestive  analogy. 
Fashions  constantly  change,  nobody  knows  exactly 
why.  But  everybody  knows  that  a series  of  annual 
fashion-plates  extending  over  a century  would  show  a 
very  marked  series  of  changes  in  the  outward  aspect 
of  the  human  form  divine.  Every  theatre-goer  knows 
too  that  these  changes  are  so  marked  that  a play 
written  a generation  ago  — Bulwer’s  44  Money,”  for 
example,  or  even  Robertson’s  44  School  ” — cannot 
without  a grotesqueness  that  would  nullify  its  dra- 
matic effect  be  produced  with  such  costumes  as  were 


24 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


worn  by  the  original  actors.  Though  the  more  subtile 
fashion  to  which  we  have  given  the  name  “good  use” 
changes  more  slowly,  it  changes  just  as  surely ; 
and  to  a certain  degree  it  follows  fashion  itself.  The 
most  curious  example  of  this  I have  lately  come  across 
is  in  a song  familiar  to  most  of  us : — 

“ Yankee  Doodle  came  to  town 
A-riding  on  a pony, 

He  stuck  a feather  in  his  hat, 

And  called  him  macaroni.” 

Now,  why  he  should  have  described  himself  as  a nutri- 
tious article  of  diet  popular  in  Southern  Europe  I 
could  never  imagine  until  I happened  to  notice  Sir 
Benjamin  Backbite’s  impromptu  verses  in  the  “ School 
for  Scandal,”  — a play  produced  just  before  the  Amer- 
ican Revolution  : — 

“ Sure,  never  were  seen  two  such  beautiful  ponies; 

Other  horses  are  clowns,  hut  these  macaronies. 

To  give  them  this  title  I ’m  sure  is  not  wrong, 

Their  legs  are  so  slim  and  their  tails  are  so  long.” 

Apparently  the  macaroni  was  a dandy  in  tights 
and  very  long  coat-tails.  The  embattled  farmers 
with  feathers  in  their  hats  were  derisively  likened  to 
him,  just  as  a country  fellow  on  a cart-horse  is  some- 
times hailed  to-day  as  a “ dude  on  horseback.”  And  a 
panorama  of  men’s  fashion-plates  from  Sheridan’s 
time  to  ours  would  show  a series  of  figures,  each  of 
which  might  have  been  described  all  along  as  an  ex- 
quisite or  a man  of  fashion  ; but  for  each  of  which,  as 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  25 


it  appears  specifically  different  from  the  rest,  a new 
and  transient  name  arises : macaroni,  for  example, 
buck,  dandy,  swell,  dude. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  most  suggestive  example  of 
good  use  — reputable,  national,  and  present — is  a fact 
within  the  personal  experience  of  every  one  of  us. 
When  we  write  letters,  we  begin  them  with  the  adjec- 
tive dear.  Now,  the  occasions  when  we  mean  by  this 
word  to  express  even  the  smallest  degree  of  personal 
affection  are  so  rare  that  at  such  moments  we  often 
feel  called  upon  to  change  the  word  to  dearest , or  very 
dear , or  darling.  There  is  another  form  of  address  in 
all  respects  but  one  decidedly  more  expressive  of  what 
we  really  mean, — Friend.  Yet  none  of  us  begins  a 
letter  “ Friend  Tompkins.”  And  the  only  reason  why 
none  of  us  commits  this  unpardonable  sin  is  that  cus 
tom,  fashion,  good  use,  forbids.  So  nowadays  w^ 
are  no  longer  “ Obedient,  Humble  Servants,”  but 
“ Truly  ” or  “ Sincerely  ” or  “ Faithfully  Yours,  ” — 
not  because  either  phrase  was  ever  literally  true, 
but  simply  and  solely  because,  nobody  knows  why, 
good  use  once  sanctioned  one  form,  and  now  sanc- 
tions the  others. 

I have  dwelt  thus  long  on  good  use  because,  as  I 
have  said  more  than  once  already,  good  use  is  inevi- 
tably the  basis  of  all  good  style.  Whoever  strays 
from  it  is  first  “ original,”  then  eccentric,  then  ob- 
scure, then  unintelligible.  Whoever  writes  a totally 
foreign  language  is  of  course  unintelligible,  but  unin- 
telligible only  because  in  every  word  he  formulates, 


26 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


and  sometimes  in  every  mark  he  puts  down,  he 
serenely  violates  every  rule  of  the  reputable,  national, 
and  present  use  that  makes  modern  English  the  thing 
it  is.  But  unless  I have  sadly  missed  my  purpose, 
I have  shown  you  reason  to  see  that  in  the  last 
sentence  I used  a word  by  no  means  felicitous. 
“ Every  rule”  I wrote,  “ of  good  use  ; ” but  the  very 
essence  of  good  use  is  that  it  is  not  a system  of  rules, 
but  a constantly  shifting  state  of  fact.  Rules,  dic- 
tionaries, grammars,  can  help  us  to  discover  it,  just  as 
fashion-plates  and  manuals  of  etiquette  may  help  us 
to  dress  ourselves  and  to  behave  properly  at  table. 
But  in  the  one  case,  as  in  the  others,  there  is  no  more 
absolute  rule  than  the  one  which  prudent  people 
habitually  exemplify ; namely,  that  a wise  man  should 
keep  good  company,  and  use  good  sense. 

So  far,  in  order  to  emphasize  at  once  the  laxity 
and  the  tyranny  of  good  use,  I have  been  asking  you 
to  consider  style  as  a series  of  letters  so  joined  to- 
gether as  to  make  words.  And  I hope  that  our  con- 
sideration of  the  subject  has  been  close  enough  to 
fix  in  our  minds  the  fact  that  the  chief  reason  why 
style  impresses  us  as  a thing  possessed  of  very  subtile 
qualities  is  that  human  consent  has  agreed  to  asso- 
ciate with  those  palpably  material  facts,  arbitrary 
sounds  and  the  arbitrary  marks  that  stand  for  them, 
certain  more  or  less  definite  phases  of  that  eternally  im- 
material reality  to  which  we  give  the  name  “ thought.” 
I shall  ask  you  now,  in  imagination,  to  turn  once 
more  to  a printed  page,  — or  better  still,  to  a printed 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  27 

book, — and  ask  yourselves  whether  we  have  as  yet 
seen  all  that  is  therein  visible. 

A number  of  black  marks  we  found  these  words  to 
be,  grouped  together  and  occasionally  repeated.  A 
little  closer  inspection  will  show  us  that,  in  any  mod- 
ern piece  of  printing  or  writing,  these  groups  of  black 
marks  to  which  we  give  the  name  “words”  are  them- 
selves grouped,  by  means  of  spaces  and  of  other 
black  marks,  which  we  call  punctuation,  in  masses 
which  even  to  the  most  untrained  eye  are  more  or  less 
independent.  In  other  words,  anybody,  whether  he 
understand  English  or  not,  can  see  that  any  piece  of 
style  consists  not  of  an  indefinite  series  of  indepen- 
dent words,  but  of  a series  of  words  intelligently  com- 
posed, — a word  which  means  neither  more  nor  less 
than  put  together . The  Latin  term,  as  a single  word, 
is  the  more  convenient.  We  need  a name  for  the 
visible  groups  in  which  the  words  that  make  up  style 
are  arranged.  The  best  and  simplest  word  I know 
is  compositions. 

In  a printed  book  or  a properly  written  manu- 
script, we  shall  soon  observe  that  more  than  one 
kind  of  composition  is  visible.  The  book  or  the 
manuscript  itself  is  a complete  composition ; it  is 
generally  made  up  of  a considerable  number  of  visi- 
bly distinct  parts  to  which  we  give  the  name  “ chap- 
ters ; ” these  in  turn  are  made  up  of  a number  of 
somewhat  less  distinct  parts  which  we  call  “ para- 
graphs;’ these  in  turn  of  parts  still  less,  but  still 
visibly,  distinct,  which  we  call  “ sentences.”  Or,  to 


28 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


state  the  matter  conversely,  all  style  consists  of  words, 
composed  in  sentences,  composed  in  paragraphs,  com- 
posed in  larger  groups  to  which  we  may  for  our  pur- 
poses give  the  name  u whole  compositions.” 

The  question  which  now  presents  itself  to  whoever 
has  grasped  the  fact  that  good  use,  and  good  use 
alone,  is  what  gives  significance  to  the  words  of 
which  all  style  primarily  consists,  takes  a very  defi- 
nite form.  Are  compositions,  like  words,  governed 
by  good  use  ? Or  may  we,  in  composing  words,  act 
with  more  independence  than  in  choosing  them  ? In 
that  case,  are  there  any  general  principles  of  com- 
position by  which  we  may  to  advantage  govern  our 
conduct  ? 

The  simplest  way  of  answering  this  question,  I 
think,  is  to  answer  it  backward  : in  the  first  place,  to 
inquire  what  general  principles  of  composition  might 
rationally  be  laid  down  if  there  were  no  such  trouble- 
some thing  as  good  use  to  interfere  with  us ; and  then 
to  inquire  how  far  the  action  of  these  principles  is 
balked  in  practice  by  good  use. 

And  here  we  come  to  what  has  appeared  to  me 
the  fault  of  almost  every  textbook  of  Rhetoric  I 
have  examined.  These  books  consist  chiefly  of  direc- 
tions as  to  how  one  who  would  write  should  set  about 
composing.  Many  of  these  directions  are  extremely 
sensible,  many  very  suggestive.  But  in  every  case 
these  directions  are  appallingly  numerous.  It  took 
me  some  years  to  discern  that  all  which  have  so  far 
come  to  my  notice  could  be  grouped  under  one  of 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  29 

three  very  simple  heads,  each  of  which  might  be 
phrased  as  a simple  proposition.  Various  as  they 
are,  all  these  directions  concern  either  what  may  be 
included  in  a given  composition  (a  sentence,  a para- 
graph, or  a whole)  ; or  what  I may  call  the  outline,  or 
perhaps  better,  the  mass  of  the  composition,  — in  other 
words,  where  the  chief  parts  may  most  conveniently 
be  placed ; or  finally,  the  internal  arrangement  of 
the  composition  in  detail.  In  brief,  I may  phrase 
these  three  principles  of  composition  as  follows  : (1) 
Every  composition  should  group  itself  about  one 
central  idea;  (2)  The  chief  parts  of  every  composi- 
tion should  be  so  placed  as  readily  to  catch  the  eye  ; 
(3)  Finally,  the  relation  of  each  part  of  a composi- 
tion to  its  neighbors  should  be  unmistakable.  The 
first  of  these  principles  may  conveniently  be  named 
the  principle  of  Unity ; the  second,  the  principle  of 
Mass  ; the  third,  the  principle  of  Coherence.  They  are 
important  enough  to  deserve  examination  in  detail. 

I have  said  that  all  compositions  should  have  unity, 
— in  other  words,  that  every  composition  should 
group  itself  about  one  central  idea.  The  very  terms 
in  which  I have  phrased  this  principle  suggest  at  once 
the  chief  fact  that  I have  tried  to  keep  before  you  in 
the  earlier  part  of  this  chapter,  — that  words  are  after 
all  nothing  but  arbitrary  symbols  standing  for  ideas. 
So  really,  when  we  come  to  consider  the  substance 
of  any  composition,  we  may  better  concern  ourselves 
rather  with  what  the  words  stand  for  than  with  the 
visible  symbols  themselves.  If  we  once  know  what 


30 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


ideas  we  wish  to  group  together,  the  task  of  finding 
words  for  them  is  immensely  simplified ; on  the  other 
hand,  if  in  the  act  of  composition  — an  act  which  is 
generally  rather  hasty  — we  have  grouped  together 
a number  of  words,  the  question  of  whether  we  shall 
leave  them  together,  or  strike  out  some,  or  add  some, 
is  generally  to  be  settled  by  considering  not  what  visi- 
ble forms  our  composition  has  associated,  but  what 
ideas.  Now,  the  principles  on  which  we  may  properly 
group  ideas  together  are  as  various  as  anything  well 
can  be.  In  the  first  place,  as  we  have  just  seen,  there 
are  various  kinds  of  compositions,  — sentences,  para- 
graphs, and  those  larger  kinds  which  for  convenience 
I have  grouped  under  the  single  head  of  wholes.  Ob- 
viously there  is  in  good  style  some  reason  why  the 
unity  of  the  sentence  should  be  more  limited  than 
that  of  the  paragraph,  and  the  unity  of  the  paragraph 
than  that  of  the  whole.  Yet,  as  our  purposes  in  com- 
posing vary,  we  may  perfectly  well  devote  to  a single 
subject — George  Eliot,  for  example  — a book,  a chap- 
ter, a paragraph,  or  a sentence.  Any  decently  written 
life  of  George  Eliot  — Mr.  Cross’s,  let  us  say — has 
unity,  in  that  it  groups  itself  about  one  central  idea  ; 
namely,  the  notable  writer  in  question.  Any  history 
of  English  fiction  in  the  nineteenth  century  — to  be 
sure,  I do  not  at  this  moment  recall  one  worth  men- 
tioning — would  probably  contain  a chapter  about 
George  Eliot  which  would  possess  unity  for  precisely 
the  same  reason.  So,  in  a general  account  of  con- 
temporary English  literature,  we  should  be  rather 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  81 

surprised  not  to  find  at  least  a paragraph  devoted 
to  George  Eliot,  and  this  paragraph  would  have  unity 
for  precisely  the  same  reason  that  caused  us  to  recog- 
nize it  in  the  imaginary  chapter,  or  in  Ml*.  Cross’s 
book.  And  a very  short  article  — a leader  in  a news- 
paper, for  example  — which  should  deal  with  modern 
novels  in  general  would  be  more  than  apt  to  contain 
at  least  a sentence  about  George  Eliot,  of  which  the 
unity  would  be  demonstrable  in  exactly  the  same 
way.  In  other  words,  the  question  of  scale  — in 
many  aspects  important  — has  very  little  to  do  with 
the  question  of  unity.  The  question  of  unity  is 
whether  for  our  purposes  the  ideas  we  have  grouped 
together  may  rationally  be  so  grouped ; if  we  can 
show  that  they  may,  we  are  safe.  Analogies  are 
often  helpful : we  may  liken  the  grouping  of  ideas 
in  compositions  to  the  grouping  of  facts  in  statistics. 
A group  of  statistics,  such  as  the  director  of  the 
Harvard  gymnasium  calls  anthropometic,  may  con- 
cern a single  individual ; again,  a genealogy  con- 
cerns, as  the  case  may  be,  a family,  or  a group  of 
families  related  by  blood  or  marriage ; a local  history, 
such  as  we  have  hundreds  of  in  New  England,  prop- 
erly concerns  a considerable  number  of  families  who 
have  lived  at  different  times  under  the  same  political 
conditions ; a State  or  a national  census  concerns  the 
entire  population  of  State  or  nation,  and  groups  it 
too  in  any  number  of  different  ways.  But  each  of 
these  things  has  a unity  of  its  own ; and  to  a certain 
degree  each  larger  group  contains  each  smaller  one. 


32 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


Here,  I think,  is  the  chief  thing  to  keep  in  mind  : just 
as  the  sentence  is  a group  of  words,  the  paragraph  is 
a group  of  sentences,  and  the  whole  a group  of  para- 
graphs, We  should  take  care  that  each  group  has, 
for  our  purpose,  a unity  of  its  own;  and  that  the 
unity  of  each  larger  group  is  of  a kind  that  may 
properly  be  resolved  into  the  smaller  unities  of  which 
it  is  composed. 

In  considering  the  question  of  unity,  then,  we  con- 
sider rather  what  the  words  stand  for  than  the  visible 
words  themselves.  In  considering  the  second  principle 
of  composition,  — the  principle  of  Mass,  — I conceive 
the  case  to  be  different.  Style,  you  will  remember,  I 
defined  as  the  expression  of  thought  and  emotion  in 
written  words.  Written  words  we  saw  to  be  visible  ma- 
terial symbols  of  that  immaterial  reality,  thought  and 
emotion,  which  makes  up  our  conscious  lives.  What 
distinguishes  written  words  from  spoken,  literature 
from  the  colloquial  language  that  precedes  it,  is  that 
written  words  address  themselves  to  the  eye  and 
spoken  words  to  the  ear.  Though  this  fundamental 
physical  fact  has  been  neglected  by  the  makers  of 
textbooks,  I know  few  more  important.  The  prin- 
ciple of  Mass,  you  will  remember, — the  principle  which 
governs  the  outward  form  of  every  composition,  — is 
that  the  chief  parts  of  every  composition  should  be  so 
placed  as  readily  to  catch  the  eye.  Now,  what  catches 
the  eye  is  obviously  not  the  immaterial  idea  a word 
stands  for,  but  the  material  symbol  of  the  idea,  — the 
actual  black  marks  to  which  good  use  has  in  course 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  33 


of  time  come  to  attach  such  subtile  and  varied  signifi- 
cance. In  these  groups  of  visible  marks  that  compose 
style  certain  parts  are  more  conspicuous  than  others. 
Broadly  speaking,  the  most  readily  visible  parts  of  a 
given  composition  are  the  beginning  and  the  end. 
Run  your  eye  over  a printed  page ; you  will  find  it 
arrested  by  every  period,  more  still-  by  every  one  of 
those  breaks  which  mark  the  division  of  paragraphs. 
Compare  a book  not  broken  into  chapters  — Defoe’s 
“Plague”  for  example  — with  a book  in  which  the 
chapters  are  carefully  distinguished  ; and  you  will 
feel,  on  a conveniently  large  scale,  the  extreme  me- 
chanical inconvenience  of  the  former  arrangement. 
On  the  other  hand,  compare  the  ordinary  version  of 
the  Bible — broken  into  verses  whose  separation  is 
based  chiefly  on  the  fact  that  each  by  itself  will  make 
a tolerable  text — with  the  Revised  Version,  in  most 
respects  so  deplorably  inferior  as  literature : in  the 
former  case,  it  is  mechanically  hard,  unless  somebody 
is  reading  aloud  to  you,  to  make  out  which  break 
is  important,  which  not ; in  the  latter  case,  the  task  is 
mechanically  easy.  Or  again,  remark  a fact  that  is 
becoming  in  my  literary  studies  comically  general : 
familiar  quotations  from  celebrated  books  are  almost 
always  to  be  found  at  the  beginning  or  the  end. 
“ Music  hath  charms  ” are  the  opening  words  of 
Congreve’s  “ Mourning  Bride.”  Don  Quixote  fights 
with  the  windmill  very  early  in  the  first  volume  ; he 
dies  with  the  remark  that  there  are  no  birds  in  last 
year’s  nests  near  the  end  of  the  last.  Until  I read 


34 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


“ Don  Quixote  ” through,  a few  years  ago,  these  two  in- 
cidents were  the  chief  ones  concerning  him  which  gen- 
eral reading  and  talking  had  fixed  in  my  mind.  Now, 
the  fact  that,  for  better  or  worse,  human  readers  no- 
tice the  beginning  and  the  end  of  compositions  a good 
deal  more  readily  than  the  parts  that  come  between 
is  the  fact  on  which  the  principle  of  Mass  is  based. 
A writer  who  is  careful  so  to  mass  his  compositions 
as  to  put  in  places  that  catch  the  eye  words  which 
stand  for  ideas  that  he  wants  us  to  keep  in  mind,  will 
find  his  work  surprisingly  more  effective  than  that  of 
a perhaps  cleverer  man  who  puts  down  his  words  in 
the  order  in  which  they  occur  to  him. 

The  principle  of  Unity,  we  have  seen,  concerns 
itself  chiefly  with  the  immaterial  ideas  for  which  the 
material  written  words  stand  ; the  principle  of  Mass 
chiefly  with  the  written  words  themselves ; the  third 
principle  of  composition  — the  principle  of  Coherence 
— concerns  itself,  I think,  about  equally  with  both. 
I phrased  it,  you  will  remember,  in  the  words  that 
the  relation  of  every  part  of  a composition  to  its 
neighbors  should  be  unmistakable.  In  a given  com- 
position, for  example,  no  word  should  appear  with- 
out apparent  reason  for  being  there,  — in  other 
words,  no  incongruous  idea  should  destroy  the 
impression  of  unity.  Again,  to  put  the  matter  dif- 
ferently, no  written  word  should  be  so  placed  that 
we  cannot  see  at  a glance  how  its  presence  affects 
the  words  about  it.  Sometimes  coherence  is  a ques- 
tion of  the  actual  order  of  words ; sometimes,  as  in 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  35 

the  clause  I am  at  this  moment  writing,  of  con- 
structions ; sometimes,  as  in  the  clause  I write  now, 
it  demands  a pretty  careful  use  of  those  convenient 
parts  of  speech  to  which  we  give  the  name  “ connec- 
tives.” In  that  last  clause,  for  example,  the  pronoun 
it,  referring  to  the  word  coherence , which  was  the  sub- 
ject of  the  first  clause  in  the  sentence,  made  possible 
the  change  of  construction  from  “ it  is  a question  of  ” 
this  or  that  to  “ it  demands  ” this  or  that.  But  per- 
haps the  most  important  thing  to  remember  about  this 
last  principle  of  composition  is  its  name.  Coherence 
is  a much  more  felicitous  name  than  Unity  or  Mass. 
To  “ cohere  ” means  to  “ stick  together.”  A style 
that  sticks  together  is  coherent ; a style  whose  parts 
hang  loose  is  not. 

We  find,  then,  an  answer  to  the  first  question  we 
proposed  a little  while  ago : if  there  were  no  such 
troublesome  thing  as  good  use  to  interfere  with  the 
free  exercise  of  our  ingenuity,  we  might  clearly  put 
together  our  compositions  in  contented  obedience  to 
the  principles  of  Unity,  Mass,  and  Coherence.  It 
remains  for  us  to  inquire  how  far  the  action  of  these 
principles  is  hampered  in  practice  by  good  use. 

Perhaps  the  simplest  way  of  answering  this  in- 
quiry is  to  study  an  example  of  style  frequently 
cited  in  the  textbooks.  Among  the  various  facts 
which  have  conspired  to  give  unfavorable  fame  to  the 
Emperor  Nero  is  the  general  belief  that  he  killed  his 
mother.  In  English  we  state  this  belief  in  these 
words : Nero  killed  Agrippina.  If  asked  to  parse 


36 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


this  sentence,  we  say  that  Nero  is  in  the  nominal 
tive  case  because  it  is  the  subject  of  the  verb  hilled  ; 
and  that  Agrippina  is  in  the  objective  case  — or  the 
accusative  — because  it  is  the  object  of  the  verb.  But 
if  Agrippina  had  been  the  slayer  and  Nero  the  slain, 
Agrippina  nominative  and  Nero  objective,  the  word 
Agrippina  would  still  remain  Agrippina;  the  word 
Nero  still  Nero.  In  English  the  only  way  to  change 
the  meaning  would  be  to  change  the  order  of  words, 
and  to  say,  u Agrippina  killed  Nero.”  In  Latin,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  accusative  case  is  different  in  form 
from  the  nominative ; the  original  sentence  would 
be,  “ Nero  interfecit  Agrippinam.”  That  convenient 
final  m does  Agrippina’s  business;  the  three  words 
may  be  arranged  in  any  order  we  please.  But  if  we 
wished  to  say  that  Agrippina  killed  Nero,  we  should 
have  to  alter  the  form  of  both  names,  and  say 
“ Neronem  interfecit  Agrippina.”  In  this  single  ex- 
ample we  can  see  as  plainly  as  we  need,  1 think,  the 
chief  way  in  which  good  use  interferes  with  the  free 
operation  of  the  principles  of  composition.  The  Eng- 
lish language  has  fewer  inflections  than  almost  any 
other  known  to  the  civilized  world  ; that  is,  each 
word  has  fewer  distinct  forms  to  indicate  its  relations 
to  the  words  about  it.  All  nouns  have  possessives 
and  plurals  ; all  verbs  have  slightly  different  forms 
for  the  present  and  the  past  tense  ; but  this  is  about 
all.  In  English,  then,  the  relation  of  word  to  word  is 
expressed  not  by  the  forms  of  the  words,  but  gener- 
ally by  their  order  ; and  any  wide  departure  from  the 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  37 


normal  order  of  a sentence  — in  brief,  subject,  verb, 
object — is  apt  to  alter  or  to  destroy  the  meaning. 
“Nero  interfecit  Agrippinam,”  “Agrippinam  inter- 
fecit  Nero,”  “ Nero  Agrippinam  interfecit,”  all  mean 
exactly  the  same  thing ; the  difference  in  mass  alters 
the  emphasis,  that  is  all.  “ Nero  killed  Agrippina,” 
on  the  other  hand,  means  one  thing ; “Agrippina 
killed  Nero,”  means  another;  and  what  “Nero  Agrip- 
pina killed  ” may  mean,  nobody  without  a knowledge 
of  the  facts  can  possibly  decide. 

What  is  true  of  this  simplest  of  sentences  is  true 
in  a general  way  of  any  sentence  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. Good  use  has  settled  that  the  meaning  of  one 
great  class  of  compositions  in  English  — namely,  of 
sentences  — shall  be  indicated  in  general,  not  by  the 
forms  of  the  words  which  compose  them,  but  by  the 
order.  Except  within  firmly  defined  limits,  we  can- 
not alter  the  order  of  words  in  English  without  vio- 
lating good  use  ; and  in  no  language  can  we  violate 
good  use  without  grave  and  often  fatal  injury  to  our 
meaning.  “ Nero  Agrippina  killed,”  to  revert  to  our 
example,  is  as  completely  ambiguous  as  any  three 
words  can  be.  While,  on  the  one  hand,  then,  we  who 
use  uninflected  English  are  free  from  the  disturbing 
array  of  grammatical  rules  and  exceptions  which  so 
bothers  us  in  Latin  or  in  German,  we  are  far  less 
free  than  Romans  or  Germans  to  apply  the  principles 
of  composition  to  the  composing  of  sentences.  The 
principle  of  Unity,  to  be  sure,  we  may  generally  ob- 
serve pretty  carefully  ; but  the  principle  of  Mass  is 


/ 


38  ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 

immensely  interfered  with  by  the  fact  that  it  is  the 
order  of  words  in  a sentence  that  in  general  gives  the 
sentence  meaning ; and  so  to  a less  degree  is  the 
principle  of  Coherence. 

When  we  turn  to  the  larger  kinds  of  composition, 
however,  we  find  the  case  different.  As  a matter  of 
fact,  the  sentence  is  the  only  kind  of  composition  that 
inevitably  appears  in  spoken  discourse.  Until  words 
are  joined  together,  composed  in  sentences,  there  is, 
of  course,  no  such  thing  as  intelligible  communica- 
tion. The  moment  they  are  so  joined,  the  organism 
of  spoken  language  is  complete.  Paragraphs,  on  the 
other  hand,  do  not  appear  in  spoken  discourse  at  all. 
And  though,  of  course,  in  serious  compositions  the 
organic  structure  of  the  wdiole  ought  to  be  almost  as 
palpable  to  hearers  as  to  readers,  the  fact  remains 
that  in  by  far  the  greater  part  of  oral  discourse  — 
the  conversation,  the  chat,  the  bustle  of  daily  life  — 
there  are  no  wholes  at  all.  In  other  words,  then, 
while  oral  usage  — actual  speech  — is  what  the 
sentence  is  based  on,  the  paragraph  and  the  whole 
composition  are  based  on  written  usage,  which  is 
commonly  a great  deal  more  thoughtful. 

What  is  more,  while  the  sentence  is  as  old  as  lan- 
guage itself,  the  whole  composition  is  hardly  older 
than  literature,  and  the  modern  paragraph  is  consid- 
erably younger  than  the  art  of  printing.  It  follows, 
then,  and  a very  slight  study  of  the  facts  will  prove 
the  conclusion,  that  while  in  sentences  good  use  very 
seriously  interferes  with  the  operation  of  the  prin- 


ELEMENTS  AND  QUALITIES  OF  STYLE.  39 

ciples  of  composition,  it  interferes  very  little  with 
their  operation  in  paragraphs  and  in  compositions 
of  a larger  kind.  In  other  words,  we  are  free  to 
arrange  sentences  in  paragraphs,  and  paragraphs  in 
chapters,  and  chapters  in  books,  pretty  much  as  we 
think  fit. 

We  are  now,  I think,  in  a position  to  sum  up 
in  a very  few  words  the  theory  of  style  which  I 
shall  try  to  present  to  you.  Style,  you  will  remem- 
ber, I defined  as  the  expression  of  thought  and 
feeling  in  written  words.  Modern  style  — the  style 
we  read  and  write  to-day  — I believe  to  be  the  result 
of  a constant  though  generally  unconscious  struggle 
between  good  use  and  the  principles  of  composition. 
In  words,  of  course  good  use  is  absolute ; in  sentences, 
though  it  relaxes  its  authority,  it  remains  very  power- 
ful ; in  paragraphs  its  authority  becomes  very  feeble ; 
in  whole  compositions,  it  may  roughly  be  said  to 
coincide  with  the  principles. 

In  the  chapters  that  follow,  I purpose  first  to 
examine  as  carefully  as  may  be  the  outward  and 
visible  body  of  style.  It  is  made  up  of  what  I may 
call  four  elements,  — the  prime  element  Words,  com- 
posed in  Sentences,  composed  in  Paragraphs,  com- 
posed in  Whole  Compositions.  Each  of  these  elements 
I shall  examine  in  detail,  inquiring  first  how  far  it 
is  affected  by  the  paramount  authority  of  good  use, 
and  then  how  within  the  limits  of  good  use  it  may  be 
made,  by  means  of  the  principles  of  composition  or 
otherwise,  to  assume  various  forms  and  to  perform 


40 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


various  offices.  Then,  when  we  have  studied  the 
visible  body  of  style,  its  material  elements,  as  care- 
fully as  we  can,  I shall  turn  to  the  three  qualities, 
Clearness,  Force,  and  Elegance,  and  try  to  determine 
what  it  is  in  the  elements  by  which  each  of  them  may 
be  secured  or  lost. 

A dull  business  this  seems  to  many,  yet  after  ten 
years’  study  I do  not  find  it  dull  at  all.  I find  it, 
rather,  constantly  more  stimulating  ; and  this  because 
I grow  more  and  more  aware  how  in  its  essence  this 
matter  of  composition  is  as  far  from  a dull  and  life- 
less business  as  earthly  matters  can  be ; how  he  who 
scribbles  a dozen  words,  just  as  truly  as  he  who  writes 
an  epic,  performs  — all  unknowing  — one  of  those 
feats  that  tell  us  why  men  have  believed  that  God 
made  man  in  His  image.  For  he  who  scrawls  rib- 
aldry, just  as  truly  as  he  who  writes  for  all  time, 
does  that  most  wonderful  of  things, — gives  a mate- 
rial body  to  some  reality  which  till  that  moment  was 
immaterial,  executes,  all  unconscious  of  the  power 
for  which  divine  is  none  too  grand  a word,  a lasting 
act  of  creative  imagination. 


II. 


WORDS. 

Words,  considered  by  themselves,  are  nothing  more 
or  less  than  names,  — the  names  we  give  people  just 
as  much  as  the  names  we  give  ideas.  John  is  clearly 
at  once  a word  and  a name ; so  is  the  compound  word 
John  Jones;  so  is  the  word  spade , which  proverbial 
wisdom  declares  to  be  so  often  used  with  reluctance ; 
so  perhaps  less  obviously  is  the  compound,  — not 
necessarily  preferable,  — the  iron  utensil  frequently 
employed  for  purposes  of  excavation.  The  office  of 
the  words  or  groups  of  words  which  we  shall  consider 
in  this  chapter  is  precisely  the  office  of  proper  names, 
— to  identify  separate  ideas.  John  Jones,  American 
citizen,  tax-payer  ; kill,  put  to  death,  execute ; admi- 
rable, not  to  be  endured,  — all  these  are  names  of 
ideas.  So  is  every  word  I utter  in  this,  or  in  any 
other  sentence.  The  main  thing  to  keep  in  mind  is 
that  here  we  are  to  consider  words  by  themselves,  and 
not  in  composition ; as  names  of  separate  ideas,  and 
not  as  groups  which  indicate  the  mutual  relations  of 
separate  ideas. 

It  is  hardly  worth  while  to  repeat  that  the  only 
thing  which  makes  a given  word  signify  a given  idea 


42 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


is  that  good  use — use  which  is  reputable,  national, 
and  present,  — has  consented  that  it  shall  do  so.  It 
is  more  than  worth  while,  however,  it  is  absolutely 
necessary,  to  keep  this  fact  in  mind.  For  since,  gen- 
erally speaking,  there  is  no  other  relation  between  the 
sound  we  utter  and  the  idea  we  wish  to  convey  than 
that  a great  many  other  people  have  previously  used 
the  same  sound  for  the  same  purpose,  it  follows  that 
if  for  any  reason  we  depart  from  the  general  practice 
of  the  people  we  address,  we  run  into  danger,  if  not 
into  the  certainty  of  exerting  ourselves  to  no  purpose 
whatever.  I remember  having  once  waked  up  in  a 
Spanish  railway-carriage  to  find  myself  alone  on  a 
side  track  near  the  foot  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  over 
which  the  rest  of  the  train  had  proceeded  an  hour  or 
two  before.  I am  unfortunate  enough  to  know  noth- 
ing whatever  of  the  Spanish  language.  The  twelve 
hours  of  misadventure  which  followed  my  waking 
were  immensely  complicated  by  the  fact  that  I had 
no  idea  of  what  notions  the  kindly  disposed  inhabi- 
tants of  Estremadura  attached  to  the  vocal  sounds  they 
amiably  uttered ; nor  had  they  any  of  the  usage  prev- 
alent in  the  more  civilized  parts  of  North  America. 
And  a very  curious  fact  was  that  the  interpreter  on 
whom  we  ultimately  fell  back  was  a native  of  the 
place  who  had  the  misfortune  to  be  deaf  and  dumb. 
The  language  of  sign  has  no  nationality. 

Of  course  a dangerous  practice  is  not  necessarily 
fatal.  You  may  go  into  action  without  getting  shot; 
you  may  ride  a bucking  horse  without  breaking  your 


WORDS. 


43 


neck ; you  may  write  or  utter  a word  sanctioned  by 
no  respectable  usage  whatever  without  being  incom- 
prehensible, — vamose , for  example,  absquatulate , 
enthuse,  walkist.  But  to  go  no  farther  than  a play 
that  all  of  us  have  read,  what  does  Hamlet  mean  by 
two  phrases  to  be  found  in  every  text  ? When  Ophelia 
asks  him  what  his  play  means,  he  answers,  “ This  is 
miehing  mallecho ; it  means  mischief;”  and  when, 
somewhat  earlier,  his  friends  are  trying  to  prevent  his 
following  the  ghost,  he  says,  “ By  Heaven,  I ’ll  make  a 
ghost  of  him  that  lets  me.”  Now,  I am  informed  that 
in  certain  parts  of  New  England  the  word  meaching  is 
still  in  use,  to  express  some  sly  line  of  conduct  or 
other  observable  in  dogs.  I never  heard  it ; I do  not 
know  exactly  what  line  of  conduct  it  describes.  What 
mallecho  may  mean,  except  that  it  looks  Spanish,  and 
that  the  Latin  root  mal  means  bad , and  has  given  rise 
to  a great  many  names  for  bad  things  in  modern  lan- 
guages, I have  no  idea  at  all.  English  it  certainly 
is  not,  any  more  than  miehing  mallecho  is  compre- 
hensible without  considerable  commentary,  much  of 
which  is  concerned  with  the  question  of  whether 
the  whole  trouble  may  not  be  a printer’s  error.  To 
turn  to  the  second  phrase,  we  all  use  the  word  let ; 
roughly  speaking,  it  means  to  allow,  to  permit : you 
let  a child  sit  up  past  bedtime.  But  what  sense  is 
there  in  Hamlet’s  threatening  to  make  a ghost  of  who- 
ever lets  him  follow  the  ghost  — which  is  exactly  what 
he  is  trying  to  do  ? Asa  matter  of  fact,  the  good  use 
of  Shakspere’s  time  attached  to  the  word  let  the 


44 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


meaning  that  we  express  by  the  words  check  or  pre- 
vent, — a meaning  preserved  nowadays  only  in  the 
somewhat  rare  idiom  “ without  let  or  hindrance.” 
Obviously,  neither  of  Hamlet’s  words  is  of  any  partic- 
ular use  to  a man  who  wishes  to  convey  an  idea  to 
another  in  the  year  of  grace  1891. 

I chose  these  simple  and  very  palpable  examples  of 
words  that  answer  no  purpose  nowadays  because  they 
show  very  clearly  the  two  grounds,  and  the  only  two, 
on  which  we  are  safe  in  declaring  a word  unfit  for  use. 
To  English-speaking  people  miching  may  once  have 
meant  something ; at  present,  to  most  English-speak- 
ing people  it  certainly  means  nothing  whatever ; to 
most  English-speaking  people,  I incline  to  think, 
mallecho  has  never  meant  anything  at  all.  In  other 
words,  neither  miching  nor  mallecho  is  at  this  moment 
in  the  English  language.  Let , on  the  other  hand,  is 
undoubtedly  in  the  language ; but  at  this  moment  it 
means  not  what  Hamlet  meant  by  it,  but  precisely  the 
reverse.  To  use  the  technical  terms  of  Rhetoric, 
miching  and  mallecho , words  not  in  the  language,  are 
now  Barbarisms ; let , a word  in  the  language,  but  a 
word  to  which  good  use  gives  a different  meaning 
from  that  for  which  it  is  employed,  is  now  an  Impro- 
priety. All  offences  against  good  use  in  our  choice  of 
words  are  either  Barbarisms  or  Improprieties.  It  is 
worth  while,  then,  to  devote  a few  minutes  to  each 
class. 

For  just  here  come  a great  part  of  the  questions 
about  style  which  puzzle  unpractised  writers  and  add 


WORDS. 


45 


discomfort  to  a chair  of  Rhetoric.  Is  this  word  or 
that  admissible  ? they  ask  us,  day  after  day.  Is  it  a 
Barbarism,  we  ask  ourselves,  or  an  Impropriety  ? If 
neither,  then  it  is  admissible. 

Comparatively  speaking,  Barbarisms  are  not  very 
common.  Obsolete  words,  such  as  Hamlet’s  miehing 
mallecho , are  obsolete  just  because,  for  one  reason  or 
another,  people  have  stopped  using  them.  For  this 
very  reason,  people  who  write  nowadays  do  not  know 
them  by  sight  and  sound ; and  there  is  little  danger 
of  falling  into  any  sin  from  temptation  to  which  cir- 
cumstances free  you.  Foreign  words,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  more  insidious.  To  many  minds  haut-ton 
says  something  far  more  significant  than  fashion , — 
something  which  I found  expressed  in  Portugal,  some 
years  ago,  by  a mysterious  phrase  which  the  Portu- 
guese pronounced  ig-leaf , a perfect  rhyme  with  fig-leaf ; 
they  spelled  it,  I discovered  later,  high-life , and  believed 
it  very  choice  English.  The  truth  is  that  novelty  of 
expression  frequently  masks  commonplace.  A little 
learning  is  very  dangerous  to  vocabulary  ; but  a very 
little  good  sense  will  minimize  the  danger. 

“ And  when  that  he  wel  drunken  had  the  win. 

Then  would  he  speken  no  word  but  Latin ; ” 

but  when  the  ecclesiastic  was  sober,  he  could  discourse 
in  very  rational  English. 

Brand-new  words,  like  foreign  ones,  are  insidious 
for  much  the  same  reason : they  conceal  for  a mo- 
ment the  triteness  of  the  idea  they  stand  for.  Slang 


46 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


changes  a good  deal  faster  than  the  manners  and  cus- 
toms of  mankind.  Stale  stories  existed  long  before 
chestnuts,  and  have  already  survived  them  a year  or 
two.  Now,  there  is,  I conceive,  just  one  excuse  for  a 
brand-new  word ; namely,  a brand-new  idea.  When 
telephones  were  invented  we  needed  a vocabulary  to 
fit  the  facts,  and  straightway  introduced  one.  When 
Ericsson  gave  us  a new  kind  of  war-ship,  the  accident 
of  its  name  gave  us  the  new  term  monitor , which  has 
lasted.  Copperhead  was  a good  word  five  and  twenty 
years  ago ; so  was  Mugwump  when  certain  of  our 
fellow-citizens  refused  to  vote  for  Mr.  Blaine ; but  as 
politics  have  changed,  Copperheads  and  Mugwumps 
are  becoming,  save  to  historical  scholars,  terms  as 
mysterious  as  to  young  people  nowadays  is  the  term 
waterfall , which  was  applied  to  those  bunches  of  hair 
that  dangled  at  the  necks  of  pretty  girls  in  President 
Lincoln’s  time.  But  Whig  and  Tory  lived  for  a cen- 
tury and  more  ; so  perhaps  will  Republican  and 
Democrat.  And  curls  and  shirts  and  wigs  are  peren- 
nial ; but  periwigs  are  no  more.  Perhaps  no  phase  of 
barbarism  is  more  palpable  and  more  provoking  thjpi 
the  pedantic  trick  of  spelling  old  names  in  new  ways : 
why  we  say  Alsace  and  Bavaria  and  Mark  Antony, 
why  we  do  not  say  Homeros  and  Roma  and  Brute,  I 
do  not  know;  but  I know  that  we  do  not.  And  I 
know  that  there  are  few  more  unidiomatic  absurdities 
than  those  of  the  gentlemen  who  insist  on  spelling 
Alfred  Aelfred,  and  Yirgil  with  an  e,  and  otherwise 
on  impairing  that  irrational,  spontaneous  variety  which 


WORDS. 


47 


people  who  love  English  know  to  be  one  of  its  most 
subtile  charms.  The  worst  of  the  mischief  is  that 
they  cannot  do  it  without  knowing  it.  Neither,  as  a 
general  rule,  can  any  prudent  person,  who  knows  a 
language  well  enough  to  talk  it  fluently,  be  guilty  of 
a serious  Barbarism. 

A curious  proof  of  this  was  an  experience  I had  a 
little  while  ago.  Touching  this  subject  in  some  lec- 
tures at  college,  I took  up  a package  of  undergraduate 
themes,  some  sixty  in  number,  and  looked  through  them 
for  examples  of  Barbarism.  In  half  an  hour  or  so  I 
found  only  three  ; and  none  of  them  was  flagrant.  I 
then  looked  through  the  same  package  for  examples 
of  Impropriety  ; in  less  time  I had  found  something 
near  a hundred.  “ Harvard,”  for  example,  wrote  one 
youth,  who  wished  to  be  superlatively  loyal,  “ is  the 
'peer  of  all  American  colleges,”  which  means  of 
course  only  that  Harvard  is  as  good  a college  as  any 
other. 

Improprieties,  then,  — the  misuse  of  words  which 
are  actually  in  the  language,  — are  by  far  the  com- 
monest and  most  insidious  offences  against  good 
use  in  words.  It  is  convenient  to  study  anything  in 
a somewhat  exaggerated  form.  Crude  Impropriety  is 
a perennial  form  of  humor  ; it  is  what  makes  us  laugh 
at  the  speeches  of  Mrs.  Quickly,  of  Dogberry,  of  Mrs. 
Malaprop  ; at  the  spelling  of  Hosea  Biglow  or  of  Josh 
Billings.  And  two  speeches  of  Dogberry’s  will  per- 
haps afford  as  good  examples  as  we  need.  When 
one  of  his  prisoners  calls  him  an  ass,  he  exclaims, 


48 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


“ Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place  ? ” and  a little  later, 
in  regret  that  the  contempt  of  court  is  unrecorded, 
“ 0 that  he  were  here  to  write  me  down  an  ass!”  By 
asking  why  Dogberry  falls  into  these  two  errors,  we 
may  discover  the  chief  reasons  why  anybody  ever  falls 
into  Impropriety.  The  reasons  for  the  two  are  distinct : 
when  he  says,  “ Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place?”  — 
meaning  respect  — he  deliberately  uses  a bigger  word 
than  he  can  understand;  when  he  says,  “ 0 that  I had 
been  writ  down  an  ass  ! ” he  has  lost  his  head,  and  so 
in  excitement  utters  a phrase  which  in  cooler  mo- 
ments he  would  understand  to  mean  something  very 
different  from  what  he  intends.  One  or  the  other  of 
these  reasons  I have  found  to  underlie  nearly  all  the 
Improprieties  I have  come  across. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  charm  of  novelty  and  mystery 
which  surrounds  any  unfamiliar  phrase  is  profoundly 
fascinating.  I have  always  sympathized  with  the  man 
in  one  of  George  Eliot’s  novels  who  finds  much  com- 
fort in  repeating  to  himself  the  words,  “ Sihon,  King  of 
the  Amorites,  for  His  mercy  endureth  forever.  And 
Og,  King  of  Bashan,  for  His  mercy  endureth  forever.” 
So  too  with  the  converted  African,  in  some  less 
notable  fiction,  who  found  in  an  old  Book  of  Common 
Prayer  no  words  quite  so  pregnant  with  spiritual 
meaning  as  “ Augusta,  Princess-Dowager  of  Wales.” 
Even  reasonably  educated  people,  I am  afraid,  are 
not  proof  against  the  charms  of  the  unfamiliar.  Not 
long  ago  I found  in  the  work  of  an  admirably  but 
modernly  trained  American  an  elaborate  figure  about 


WORDS. 


49 


the  fate  of  Phaeton,  whom  a classical  dictionary  con- 
firmed my  fear  that  he  had  confused  with  Icarus. 
But  a glance  at  a classical  dictionary  would  have 
saved  him ; so  would  a single  question  as  to  whether 
he  really  knew  whom  he  was  talking  about.  In 
brief,  this  kind  of  Impropriety  is  very  closely  akin 
to  the  barbarous  use  of  foreign  or  of  new  words, 
which  we  found  to  be  easily  avoidable.  And  most 
of  the  Improprieties  I found  in  the  package  of 
themes  I mentioned  a moment  ago  fall  under  the 
other  head. 

For  one  reason  or  another,  most  of  us  generally 
speak  or  write  hastily,  without  leisure  to  consider 
details  of  style.  We  use  the  first  phrase  that  occurs 
to  us.  This  is  particularly  true  of  journalists,  far 
and  away  the  most  prolific  and  the  most  widely 
read  of  modern  men  of  letters.  An  Impropriety 
of  frequent  occurrence  is  a typical  example  of  the 
trouble  that  follows.  In  hasty  manuscript  the  words 
house  and  home  look  almost  exactly  alike.  What 
is  more,  they  really  mean  things  that  have  points 
in  common ; most  homes  are  in  houses,  and  many 
houses  contain  homes.  I venture  to  guess  that  the 
first  blunder  was  a printer’s  ; it  was  not  enough  of  a 
blunder  to  be  seriously  corrected.  And  nowadays,  in 
newspapers,  in  college  themes,  and  even  in  books,  you 
will  find  the  words  house  and  home  hereabout  used 
synonymously,  usually  to  signify  a square  wooden 
structure,  in  excellent  order,  with  a little  grass  about 
it,  and  all  the  modern  improvements.  One  who  falls 


4 


50 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


into  this  error,  as  most  of  us  manage  to  fall ; one  who 
constantly  uses  words  with  inaccuracy  enough  to 
confuse  them,  though  not  enough  to  amount  to  ob- 
scurity or  even  to  palpable  grotesqueness,  — gets  at 
last  into  very  serious  trouble.  Instead  of  having  at 
his  service  a definite  vocabulary,  he  finds  himself  in 
possession  only  of  a jumbled  collection  of  ill-defined 
synonyms. 

I have  said  enough,  I think,  to  show  clearly  what 
Barbarisms  and  Improprieties  are.  Under  one  head 
or  the  other  must  fall  all  offences  against  good  use  in 
the  choice  of  words.  Our  next  business  must  be  to 
consider  various  effects  which  may  be  secured  by  the 
choice  of  various  kinds  of  words,  all  in  themselves 
admissible ; and  finally  to  draw  from  these  consid- 
erations certain  conclusions,  worth  keeping  well  in 
mind,  concerning  the  ultimate  relation  of  words  and 
ideas. 

Before  proceeding  to  discuss  specific  kinds  of  words, 
however,  I may  perhaps  say  a word  about  vocabu- 
laries in  general.  By  a vocabulary  I mean  the  total 
number  of  words  at  the  disposal  of  a given  individual. 
No  experience  in  travel  is  more  surprising  than  the 
speed  with  which  a man  of  ordinary  intelligence  can 
pick  up  words  enough  to  get  along  in  a country  which 
he  enters  ignorant  of  its  language.  The  linguistic 
accomplishment  of  couriers  and  Swiss  waiters  ceases 
to  be  marvellous  as  soon  as  you  try  to  imitate  them. 
In  point  of  fact,  the  number  of  words  absolutely 
required  for  the  necessary  purposes  of  human  inter- 


WORDS. 


51 


course  is  astonishingly  small.  In  the  region  of  Puget 
Sound  there  has  grown  up  a curious  jargon  called 
Chinook,  by  means  of  which  the  native  Indians  and 
the  European  or  American  traders  conduct  their  ne- 
gotiations. The  jargon  is  said  to  be  equally  unlike 
the  native  dialects  and  any  tongue  known  to  the 
civilized  world,  — a pure  hybrid  ; and  I am  informed 
that  less  than  a thousand  words  abundantly  suffice 
for  all  purposes  of  trade.  For  travel,  for  every-day 
life,  a hundred  or  two  prove  more  than  enough. 
Italian  opera,  it  is  said,  expresses  all  the  notions 
that  verbally  underlie  its  extremely  pretty  music 
by  seven  or  eight  hundred.  In  short,  the  vocabu- 
lary which  anybody  absolutely  needs  is  very  small 
indeed.  The  vocabulary  at  the  disposal  of  a master 
of  such  a language  as  English,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  comparatively  enormous.  A modern  dictionary 
contains  something  like  a hundred  thousand  sepa- 
rate titles,  — all  sanctioned  by  more  or  less  usage. 
Nobody  would  ever  think  of  using  all  these  words. 
The  total  number  used  bv  Shakspere,  an  extremely 
copious  writer,  is,  I believe,  not  above  fifteen  thousand. 
But  anybody  who  is  anxious  for  the  power  of  easily 
expressing  many  and  various  shades  of  thought  and 
feeling  will  do  well  to  keep  at  his  disposal  as  large  a 
vocabulary  as  he  can  manage.  The  way  to  increase  a 
vocabulary  is  very  like  the  way  to  increase  your  per- 
sonal acquaintance.  Put  yourself  in  the  way  of  meet- 
ing as  many  different  phases  of  expression  as  you  can, 
— read  widely,  talk  with  clever  people, — and  whenever 


U,  OF  ILL  LIB. 


52 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


you  come  across  a new  word  or  expression  train  your- 
self, so  far  as  possible,  to  understand  it,  just  as  you 
would  train  yourself  to  classify  and  remember  people 
you  meet,  gentle  and  vulgar,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent. 
Each  one  has  its  place  in  that  great  composite  fact, 
— human  nature  and  human  life. 

Some  such  process  as  this  is  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously followed  by  pretty  much  everybody  who  has 
had  any  experience  in  the  art  of  verbal  expression. 
The  result  of  this  accumulated  experience  has  phrased 
itself  in  certain  more  or  less  accepted  commonplaces, 
which  may  roughly  be  called  directions  to  those  in 
search  of  a vocabulary.  Like  most  commonplaces, 
these  directions  contain  a good  deal  of  truth  and  are 
apt  to  result  in  a good  deal  of  rather  mischievous 
error.  There  is  no  better  way,  perhaps,  to  reach  the 
conclusions  about  vocabulary  to  which  I am  trying  to 
guide  you  than  to  examine  a few  of  these  common- 
places in  a little  detail. 

Among  these  commonplaces  I select  four  which  one 
certainly  hears  as  frequently  as  any.  What  is  called 
“ strong  Saxon  English  ” is  constantly  maintained  to 
be  better  than  words  derived  from  the  Latin ; big 
words  are  decried,  as  by  no  means  so  good  as  little 
ones ; general  words,  even  though  they  cluster  in 
glittering  generality,  are  held  much  inferior  to  spe- 
cific ; and  the  sins  of  florid  rhetoricians,  even  though 
skilled,  have  led  many  good  and  wise  teachers  to  de- 
plore the  use  of  figurative  language.  I propose  to 
examine  each  of  these  commonplaces  in  turn,  and 


WORDS. 


53 


to  see  what  result  our  examination  leads  to.  In  so 
doing,  I need  hardly  remind  you,  I put  the  question 
of  good  use  aside.  No  words  we  shall  consider  now 
are  either  barbarous  or  improper ; all  are  sanctioned 
by  good  use.  The  question  is  not  grammatical,  but 
rhetorical ; not  of  right  or  wrong,  but  of  better  or 
worse. 

The  simplest  way  to  proceed  is  by  direct  example. 
I shall  ask  your  attention,  then,  to  a few  fragments  of 
English  literature  in  some  of  which  a Saxon  vocabu- 
lary is  predominant,  in  others  a Latin.  Then  we  will 
ask  ourselves  which  is  the  better. 

The  first  is  a passage  from  the  “ Pilgrim’s  Pro- 
gress ” : — 

“ Then  Apollyon , espying  his  opportunity,  began  to 
gather  up  close  to  Christian , and  wrestling  with  him,  gave 
him  a dreadful  fall ; and  with  that,  Christian’s  Sword 
flew  out  of  his  hand.  Then  said  Apollyon , I am  sure  oj 
thee  now ; and  with  that,  he  had  almost  prest  him  to 
death,  so  that  Christian  began  to  despair  of  life.  But  as 
God  would  have  it,  while  Apollyon  was  fetching  of  his 
last  blow,  thereby  to  make  a full  end  of  this  good  Man, 
Christian  nimbly  reached  out  his  hand  for  his  Sword, 
saying,  Rejoyce  not  against  me,  0 mine  Enemy ! when  I 
fall , I shall  arise;  and  with  that,  gave  him  a deadly  thrust, 
which  made  him  give  back,  as  one  that  had  received  his 
mortal  wound : Christian , perceiving  that,  made  at  him 
again,  saying,  Nay , in  all  these  things  we  are  more  than 
Conquerours.  And  with  that,  Apollyon  spread  forth  his 
Dragons  wings,  and  sped  him  away,  that  Christian  for  a 
season  saw  him  no  more.” 


54 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


In  this  passage  the  proportion  of  Latin  words  to 
Saxon  is  about  one  in  thirteen. 

In  the  next  passage,  from  Dr.  Johnson’s  “ Rambler,” 
the  proportion  of  Latin  words  to  Saxon  is  almost  one 
in  three : — 

“ Words  become  law  by  the  occasions  to  which  they 
are  applied,  or  the  general  character  of  them  who  use 
them ; and  the  disgust  which  they  produce  arises  from 
the  revival  of  those  images  with  which  they  are  com- 
monly united.  Thus  if,  in  the  most  solemn  discourse,  a 
phrase  happens  to  occur  which  has  been  successfully  em- 
ployed in  some  ludicrous  narrative,  the  gravest  auditor 
finds  it  difficult  to  refrain  from  laughter,  when  they  who 
are  not  prepossessed  by  the  same  accidental  association 
are  utterly  unable  to  guess  the  reason  of  his  merriment. 
Words  which  convey  ideas  of  dignity  in  one  age  are  ban- 
ished from  elegant  writing  or  conversation  in  another, 
because  they  are  in  time  debased  by  vulgar  mouths,  and 
can  be  no  longer  heard  without  the  involuntary  recollec- 
tion of  unpleasing  images.” 

Compare  these  two  passages ; then  compare  this 
other  group,  — the  first  stanza  of  Wordsworth’s  “ Sky- 
lark,” and  that  of  Shelley’s.  Here  is  Wordsworth’s  : 

“ Ethereal  minstrel ! pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

Dost  thou  despise  the  earth,  where  cares  abound  ? 

Or  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  1 — - 
Thy  nest,  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 

Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still.” 

And  here  is  Shelley’s  : — 


WORDS. 


55 


“ Hail  to  the^  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 

That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pouresf  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art.” 

In  each  of  these  groups  you  can  hardly  fail  to 
notice  a marked  contrast  in  effect.  You  can  hardly 
fail  to  notice  too  that  the  difference  in  effect  is  in 
each  case  produced  chiefly  by  the  notable  difference 
in  the  kinds  of  words  deliberately  or  instinctively 
chosen  by  the  writers  ; in  a word,  its  cause  is  etymo- 
logic. Yet  in  no  one  of  these  extracts  is  there  a word 
not  sanctioned  by  good  use  ; and  I venture  to  assert 
that  in  no  one  of  them  is  there  an  effect  of  which  the 
loss  would  not  make  the  English  language  poorer. 

In  the  passage  from  Bunyan,  — describing  a hand- 
to-hand  fight,  — the  Saxon  words  have  a simple 
vigor  which  no  other  vocabulary  at  our  disposal  could 
secure ; in  that  from  Johnson,  — a formal,  old-fash- 
ioned literary  criticism,  — the  Latin  words  have  a sono- 
rous and  authoritative  weight  which,  for  all  their 
pomposity,  gives  the  passage  a character  unattain- 
able by  any  simpler  kind  of  diction.  In  the  Latin 
words  of  Wordsworth’s  opening  line,  the  sentiment 
of  the  meditative  poet  is  bound  to  earth,  the  atten- 
tion held  downward ; in  the  Saxon  words  of  Shelley’s, 
the  aspiring  spirit  of  the  poet  leaps  heavenward  with 
a lightness  that  no  other  kind  of  words  could  give  it. 

The  difference  we  find  here,  then,  is  not  a differ- 
ence between  good  and  bad,  or  even  between  better 


56 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


and  worse  ; it  is  simply  and  solely  a difference  in 
effect.  Sometimes  we  wish  to  do  one  thing,  some- 
times another  ; according  as  we  wish  to  do  one  or 
another  thing  we  choose  our  words  from  one  or  the 
other  of  the  chief  sources  of  our  language.  For  this 
English  language  of  ours  is  a curious  hybrid.  I never 
heard  it  better  described  in  a phrase  than  by  a Dutch 
divine  a good  many  years  ago.  I happened  to  be 
dining,  on  the  continent  of  Europe,  with  a company 
of  Protestant  clergymen  of  various  nationalities. 
They  had  passed  the  day  rather  seriously,  and  were 
amusing  themselves  at  table  by  pleasantly  disputing 
as  to  what  language  we  might  expect  to  use  in 
heaven,  whither  it  was  civilly  assumed  we  all  were 
bound.  English,  French,  and  German  each  had  its 
native  advocates.  Suddenly  this  Dutchman,  who  had 
sat  silent,  broke  in,  with  ponderous  authority : “ My 
friends,”  said  he,  “ it  must  be  English.,  English  is 
the  only  pot-pourri .” 

Etymology,  in  short,  is  a most  interesting  study  or 
pastime;  and  the  history  of  this  pot-pourri  of  an 
English  of  ours  makes  the  fit  words  for  simple  ideas 
— ideas  of  fighting,  for  example,  or  of  spontaneous 
aspiration  — chiefly  Saxon  in  their  origin ; but  the 
same  history  makes  the  fit  words  for  more  contem- 
plative ideas  — ideas  of  literary  criticism,  for  exam- 
ple, or  of  deliberate  meditation  — chiefly  Latin.  The 
question  is  not  which  kind  of  word  is  abstractly  best, 
but  generally  which  kind  of  idea  we  have  in  mind. 
And  fascinating  though  etymology  may  be,  alluring 


WORDS. 


57 


as  simple  ideas,  the  charms  of  etymology  and  sim- 
plicity should  never  blind  an  earnest  student  to  the 
fact  that  English  usage  is  not  Saxon  and  not  Latin, 
but  both,  — each  in  its  place. 

Two  examples  of  single  phrases  may  perhaps  lead 
us  as  directly  as  anything  to  the  next  classification 
of  kinds  of  words  I have  proposed  to  you,  — big  and 
little.  The  first  phrase  is  Coleridge’s  name  for  his 
most  popular  poem,  — the  “ Ancient  Mariner.”  Now, 
this  means  in  Latinized  diction  precisely  what  “ old 
sailor  ” means  in  Saxon ; but  the  big  Latin  words 
express  something  which  the  little  Saxon  words 
quite  lose.  The  second  example  is  from  a bit  of  my 
personal  observation.  In  a country  graveyard  in 
Middlesex  County,  I once  came  across  two  stones 
side  by  side.  On  the  older  by  a few  years  were  cut 
for  an  epitaph  the  familiar  lines  from  Hamlet : — 

“ All  that  live  must  die, 

Passing  through  Nature  to  eternity .” 

On  the  newer  was  an  epitaph  expressing  exactly  the 
same  idea  in  pure  Saxon : — 

“ The  path  of  death  it  must  be  trod 
By  those  that  wish  to  walk  with  God.” 

Simpler  words,  and  littler  those  last ; uncontaminated 
by  the  slightest  suspicion  of  Latinism  too  ; but  not  for 
that  eternally  better. 

With  big  words  and  little,  in  fact,  we  shall  find  the 
case  to  be  just  what  it  was  with  Latin  and  Saxon,  — 


58 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


a question  not  of  inflexible  rule  guiding  us  between 
good  and  bad,  or  even  between  better  and  worse, 
but  of  what  effect  we  have  in  mind.  Big  words  are 
apt  to  be  Latin,  and  little  to  be  Saxon  : acknowledge 
and  damn  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  But  drop- 
ping all  thought  of  etymology,  let  us  compare  the  two 
love-letters  in  the  fifth  chapter  of  “ Middlemarch.” 
Here  are  passages  from  each:  — 

“I  have  discerned  in  you,”  writes  Casaubon,  “an 
elevation  of  thought  and  a capability  of  devotedness, 
which  I had  hitherto  not  conceived  to  be  compatible  either 
with  the  early  bloom  of  youth  or  with  those  graces  of  sex 
that  may  be  said  at  once  to  win  and  to  confer  distinction 
when  combined,  as  they  notably  are  in  you,  with  the  men- 
tal qualities  above  indicated.” 

“I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  loving  me,”  writes 
Dorothea,  “ and  thinking  me  worthy  to  be  your  wife.  I 
can  look  forward  to  no  better  happiness  than  that  which 
would  be  one  with  yours.” 

Casaubon’s  conventional,  formal  nature  expresses 
itself  grandiloquently ; Dorothea’s  simple,  earnest 
nature  expresses  itself  simply.  Each  expresses  itself 
properly.  The  difference  between  big  words  and 
little,  in  short,  is  a question  of  effect. 

To  pass  now  to  the  third  classification  of  words  to 
which  I called  your  attention,  — specific  and  general, 
— let  me  ask  you  to  glance  at  two  bits  of  verse,  taken 
almost  at  random  from  the  literature  I happened  to  be 
reading  when  I last  discussed  this  subject  in  my  col- 
lege lectures. 


WORDS. 


59 


The  first  is  from  a song  by  Thomas  Nash  : — 

“ Spring,  the  sweet  spring,  is  the  year’s  pleasant  king  ; 

Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  a ring, 

Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing, 

Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-wee,  to-witta-woo ! 

**  The  palm  and  may  make  country  houses  gay; 

Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day, 

And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay,  — 

Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-wee,  to-witta-woo!  ” 

The  second  is  from  a familiar  song  by  Shakspere : 

“When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail ; 

When  blood  is  nipt,  and  ways  be  foul, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

Tuwhoo  ! 

Tuwhit ! Tuwhoo  ! A merry  note  ! 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot.” 

Iii  both  of  these  the  usage  is  notably  good ; but 
compare  for  a moment  the  difference  between  the 
word  shepherds  in  the  first  verses  and  the  words  Dick 
the  shepherd  in  the  second.  The  difference  in  effect 
is  very  notable  ; it  lies  almost  wholly  in  the  specific 
character  of  the  proper  name  Dick : we  do  not  know 
who  Dick  was,  but  the  very  mention  of  him  makes 
the  picture  that  arises  in  our  minds  a great  deal  more 
distinct  than  can  possibly  be  summoned  up  by  the 
word  shepherd  alone.  Again,  to  turn  to  mere 
phrases,  what  do  the  words  a great  church  mean,  — 


60 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


a powerful  hierarchy  like  the  Church  of  Rome,  or  a 
tall  cathedral,  like  Salisbury  ? The  general  phrase, 
to  a certain  degree,  suggests  both  of  the  ideas  it  in- 
cludes ; each  specific  phrase  excludes  the  other.  All 
three  phrases  are  beyond  reproach.  Still  again,  to 
consider  the  form  in  which  I believe  the  uninten- 
tional use  of  generalization  to  be  most  insidious, 
compare  the  phrase  we  have  already  considered,  “ Nero 
killed  Agrippina,”  with  the  passive  form  of  the  same 
statement,  “ Agrippina  was  killed.”  The  first  phrase 
is  specific.  The  function  of  the  passive  voice  is  to 
effect  a separation  between  an  action  and  the  agent ; 
the  second  phrase  throws  the  possible  suspicion  of 
murder  on  all  mankind,  and  yet  leaves  open  the  ques- 
tion whether  Agrippina  may  not  have  been  killed  by  ac- 
cident. Now,  obviously  we  may  with  perfect  propriety 
wish  to  express  either  of  these  ideas,  just  as  we  may 
wish  to  express  the  ideas  phrased  in  the  words  great 
church , or  powerful  hierarchy , or  tall  cathedral.  As 
with  Latin  words  and  Saxon,  with  big  words  and 
little,  the  question  of  specific  words  or  general  reduces 
itself  to  a question  of  effect. 

The  last  question  to  which  I proposed  to  ask  your 
attention  we  shall  find  reducing  itself  to  the  same 
form,  now  perhaps  tediously  familiar.  Take,  for  ex- 
ample, the  opening  quatrain  of  the  familiar  sonnet  of 
Shakspere : — 

“ That  time  of  year  thou  mayest  in  me  behold. 

When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few  do  hang 
Upon  the  boughs  that  shake  against  the  cold,  — 

Bare,  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang.” 


WORDS. 


61 


Here  is  a somewhat  curious  complication  of  metaphor. 
In  likening  his  temper  to  winter,  Shakspere  of  course 
is  absolutely  metaphoric ; but  in  carrying  out  the 
figure  he  is  first  literal  in  the  second  line  and  the 
third,  and  then  in  the  fourth  line  he  adds  a second 
figure  to  the  first.  Dropping  for  the  sake  of  conven- 
ience the  main  metaphor,  — allowing  the  poet  the 
license  of  general  expression  in  figurative  rather  than 
in  literal  terms,  — let  us  compare  the  literal  phrase  in 
the  third  line,  “ the  boughs  that  shake  against  the 
cold,”  with  the  figurative  phrase,  “ bare,  ruined 
choirs,”  in  the  fourth  line.  Both  are  admirably  spe- 
cific, particularly  the  last.  The  word  bare  excludes 
at  the  beginning  all  possibility  of  that  luxuriant  ver- 
dure which  comes  to  our  minds  with  the  memory  of 
almost  every  English  ruin ; the  word  ruined  does 
away  with  every  suggestion  of  roof,  of  painted  glass 
and  dim,  religious  light ; and  when  the  word  choirs 
comes,  we  are  ready  to  complete  in  fancy  the  picture 
of  Gothic  tracery  with  clear  eastern  sky  gleaming 
through  the  empty  apertures.  But  what  is  more  to 
our  purpose  now,  I for  one,  since  I knew  these  lines, 
have  never  looked  through  the  boughs  of  a tree  in  late 
December  without  at  least  some  faint  fancy  of  what 
the  English  abbeys  were  in  the  times  when  the  monks 
might  still  be  alive  to  remember  the  comfortable 
glories  which  Henry  VIII.  took  from  them  when  he 
deprived  England  of  the  mystic  pageantry  of  Rome. 
The  figure  says  more,  in  short,  than  any  literal 
phFase  could  say.  Is  what  it  says  what  we  wish  to 


62 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


say  ? Is  the  effect  it  produces  the  effect  we  have  in 
mind  ? If  so,  then  we  should  use  the  figure.  If  not, 
then  we  should  discard  it,  not  because  it  is  an  evil 
thing,  but  because  it  does  not  serve  our  purpose. 

The  conclusion  we  have  reached  — that  what  kind 
of  words  we  should  choose,  within  the  limits  of  good 
use,  depends  wholly  on  what  effect  we  wish  to  convey 
— seems  at  first  wholly  to  discredit  the  commonplace 
directions  to  those  in  search  of  a vocabulary  which 
we  have  examined.  Neither  Latin  words  nor  Saxon 
are  absolutely  better,  — neither  big  nor  little,  general 
nor  specific,  literal  nor  figurative.  Yet  I know  few 
more  marked  follies  than  that  which  leads  people  — 
and  sometimes  very  clever  ones  — wholly  to  discredit 
commonplace.  Spontaneous  generalization  is  often 
misleading ; but  it  generally  has  at  bottom  comforta- 
bly hard  facts.  And  the  facts  at  the  bottom  of  the 
four  commonplaces  that  we  have  been  thinking  about 
are  not  hard  to  find.  In  human  intercourse  we  are 
more  apt  to  have  simple  thoughts  to  express  than 
abstruse.  Now,  we  have  seen  that  little  Saxon 
words  fit  simple  ideas  better  than  big  Latin  words. 
Again,  there  is  no  more  insidious  habit  of  mind  than 
the  laziness  which  prevents  us  so  often  from  taking 
the  trouble  to  think  out  exactly  what  we  mean.  Now, 
broadly  speaking,  the  more  specific  our  words,  the 
more  exact  must  be  the  thought  behind  them.  So 
too  for  general  purposes  we  are  far  more  apt  to  need 
to  tell  people  what  we  really  mean  than  to  suggest  to 
them  what  the  thing  we  mean  resembles.  Now,  this 


WORDS. 


63 


suggestion  of  resemblance  is  precisely  what  we 
secure  by  using  figurative  words  ; when  we  wish  to  say 
exactly  what  we  mean,  our  words,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  ought  to  be  as  literal  as  we  can  make  them. 
In  point  of  fact,  then,  our  commonplaces  turn  out  to 
be  in  the  main  true,  but  to  state  truth  in  a some- 
what disguised  form.  They  purport  to  be  statements 
about  the  relative  value  of  different  kinds  of  words ; 
in  truth,  they  are  statements  about  the  relative  wisdom 
of  different  habits  of  thought. 

It  might  now  seem  well  to  proceed  at  once  to  the 
consideration  of  the  relation  of  words  to  ideas,  with 
which,  I have  said,  I purpose  to  conclude  this  chapter. 
But,  as  you  will  perhaps  remember,  I have  said  that 
we  must  consider  as  virtually  independent  words  those 
compound  names  of  ideas  which  consist  of  a consider- 
able number  of  separate  words.  Spade , for  example, 
is  obviously  a word ; less  obviously,  but  for  our  pres- 
ent purpose  just  as  truly,  so  is  the  phrase,  iron  uten- 
sil frequently  employed  for  purposes  of  excavation , — 
just  as  the  present  sovereign  of  Italy  may  be  said  to 
be  named  either  Humbert  or  by  the  line  or  two  of 
names  given  him  in  baptism  and  duly  registered  in 
the  Almanac  de  Gotha.  And  there  are  certain 
commonplaces  which  I think  we  should  not  pass  over, 
about  the  number  of  words  by  which  we  should  name 
our  ideas. 

Be  brief , I suppose,  is  the  commonest,  — more  po- 
litely phrased  in  the  proverb,  “ Brevity  is  the  soul  of 
wit ; ” and  here,  certainly,  there  is  more  positive  truth 


64 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


than  in  any  of  the  commonplaces  concerning  single 
words  to  which  I called  your  attention.  No  truth  is  more 
constantly  impressed  by  experience  on  a teacher  of  com- 
position. At  various  times  I have  taken  up  a great  many 
college  themes,  and  criticised  them  with  this  point  in 
view.  On  an  average,  I venture  to  assert,  one  half 
of  the  words  in  any  such  composition  can  be  stricken 
out  without  the  loss  of  a shade  of  meaning.  What  is 
more,  the  process  of  excision  is  apt  to  result  in  a sur- 
prisingly idiomatic  precision  of  style.  A great  many 
people  whom  few  would  suspect  of  writing  well  use 
very  good  words  indeed,  and  conceal  the  fact  only  by 
persistent  dilution  of  style  with  unnecessary  words. 

For  various  reasons,  not  the  least  of  which  is  the 
obvious  economy  of  time  and  attention,  — at  least  for 
readers,  — a compact  style  is  undoubtedly  worth  taking 
trouble  for  ; but  compactness  is  not  always  a positive 
merit,  any  more  than  is  the  use  of  strong  Saxon 
English.  In  the  one  case  as  in  the  other,  the  real 
question  is  what  effect  we  wish  to  produce.  The 
effect  secured  by  compactness  is  extremely  useful ; 
but  the  effects  secured  by  diffuseness  are  not  for  that 
reason,  or  for  any  other,  to  be  disregarded. 

An  example  of  deliberate  contrast  between  diffuse- 
ness and  compactness  may  be  worth  our  attention. 
It  is  from  De  Quincey. 

“ In  saying  this,  we  do  but  vary  the  form  of  what  we 
once  heard  delivered  on  this  subject  by  Mr.  Wordsworth. 
His  remark  was  by  far  the  weightiest  thing  we  ever  heard 
on  the  subject  of  style ; and  it  was  this : That  it  is  in 


WORDS. 


65 


the  highest  degree  unphilosophic  to  call  language,  or  dic- 
tion, ‘ the  dress  of  thoughts  ; ’ and  what  was  it,  then,  that  he 
would  substitute  ? Why,  this  : he  would  call  it  the  ‘ incar- 
nation of  thoughts.’  ” 

In  this  the  diffuseness  of  the  context  emphasizes  as 
nothing  else  could  emphasize  the  admirable  compact- 
ness of  the  phrases  on  which  the  attention  centres. 
But  there  are  a great  many  writers  whose  peculiar 
effects  are  produced  by  a frequently  unrelieved  diffuse- 
ness : De  Quincey  is  one  of  them,  — a writer  whose 
style  has  always  had  for  me  a very  subtile  charm.  In 
his  work  you  rarely  find  a sentence  that  cannot  be 
much  compressed  without  the  slightest  violation  of 
English  usage : I am  tempted  to  say  that  you  rarely 
find  an  idea  named  by  as  few  words  as  it  might  with 
full  propriety  be  named  by.  And  yet  I have  proved 
by  experiment  more  than  once  that  you  cannot  often 
strike  out  a single  one  of  De  Quincey’s  single  words 
without  the  loss  of  a perceptible  part  of  what  makes 
De  Quincey’s  style  peculiarly  De  Quincey’s.  The 
same  is  true  of  very  many  of  our  earlier  writers ; 
Izaak  Walton,  for  example.  I mention  him  because 
Professor  Bain,  whose  very  suggestive  books  on  Rhet- 
oric suffer  from  the  fact  that  he  is  apparently  unable 
to  understand  how  a rational  general  principle  can  be 
open  to  any  exception,  has  tried  to  improve  a sentence 
of  Walton’s  in  a way  that  seems  to  me  quite  in  point. 

“ I have  been  told,”  writes  Walton,  “that,  if  a man 
that  was  born  blind  could  obtain  to  have  his  sight  but  for 

5 


66 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


only  one  hour,  during  his  whole  life,  and  should,  at  the 
first  opening  of  his  eyes,  fix  his  sight'  upon  the  sun  when 
it  was  in  its  full  glory,  either  at  the  rising  or  setting  of  it, 
he  woul<l  be  so  transported  and  amazed,  and  so  admire 
the  glory  of  it,  that  he  would  not  willingly  turn  his  eyes 
from  that  first  ravishing  object,  to  behold  all  the  other 
various  beauties  this  world  could  present  to  him.” 

“ Here,”  writes  Professor  Bain,  “ we  have  both  the 
diffuse  expression  of  appropriate  ideas  and  the  accumu- 
lation of  particulars  that  are  really  unnecessary.  Such  a 
sentence  as  the  following  contains  all  the  relevant  matter, 
and  gives  the  idea  more  directness  and  force  : 4 It  is  said 
that  if  a man  born  blind  could  obtain  his  sight  but  for  one 
hour,  the  glory  of  the  sunset  or  sunrise,  should  he  happen 
to  behold  it,  would  entrance  him  beyond  all  the  other 
beauties  of  the  world.’  ” 

Professor  Bain,  you  see,  prefers  his  own  version. 
It  is  certain  that  Walton’s  expresses  nothing  which 
the  most  vivid  imagination  would  attribute  to  Profes- 
sor Bain ; but  does  Professor  Bain,  after  all,  succeed 
in  expressing  anything  which  any  imagination  would 
attribute  to  Izaak  Walton?  Does  not  Walton,  to  be 
himself,  need  every  word  he  used  to  begin  with  ? 

Be  brief , we  can  see  by  this  time  is  an  excellent  com- 
monplace, provided  that  our  purpose  is  one  which  can 
properly  be  expressed  by  brevity.  It  is  an  admirable 
rule  of  conduct ; it  suggests  a habit  of  thought  which 
under  another  guise  — Be  specific  — we  have  already 
seen  to  be  highly  worth  cultivating.  At  the  same 
time,  for  very  many  reasons,  a writer  may  very 
properly  wish  to  express  something  which  can  be 


WORDS. 


67 


expressed  by  nothing  short  of  diffuseness.  As  a 
positive  rule,  we  cannot  phrase  the  warning  more 
rigidly  than  by  charging  people  to  use  no  more  words 
than  they  need.  The  real  question  before  any  writer 
is  what  effect  he  wishes  to  produce. 

This  question  is  by  no  means  so  simple  as  it  ap- 
pears. To  answer  it  with  certainty,  a writer  must 
have,  I think,  a far  more  definite  understanding  of  the 
ultimate  relation  of  words  and  ideas  than  most  of  us 
habitually  enjoy.  I shall  turn,  then,  to  a consideration 
of  this  question,  which  I think  we  should  carefully 
consider  before  dismissing  this  part  of  our  subject. 

Not  very  long  ago  I reminded  you  that  the  total 
number  of  words  observed  in  good  use  and  registered 
in  the  larger  English  dictionaries  of  contemporary 
style  may  be  roughly  estimated  at  a hundred  thou- 
sand. Of  these,  the  most  copious  and  varied  writer 
rarely  uses  above  ten  or  fifteen  thousand  ; and  for 
every-day  purposes  a thousand  or  so  prove  amply 
sufficient.  We  are  safe,  I think,  in  assuming  that 
whoever  has  four  or  five  thousand  words  at  his  ready 
disposal  has  a better  vocabulary  than  most  of  us. 
With  this  number  of  outward  and  visible  signs  he 
must  express,  as  best  he  can,  the  eternally  immaterial 
reality  of  thought  and  feeling  which  makes  up  his 
conscious  life. 

A moment’s  thought  will  show  us  the  amazing,  the 
insurmountable  discrepancy  between  our  vehicle  of 
expression  and  the  fact  we  have  to  express.  The 
thoughts  and  the  feelings  of  no  two  human  beings  are 


68 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


identical ; and  the  shades  of  thought  and  feeling  which 
every  single  human  being  must  know  are  virtually  in- 
finite, far  beyond  any  power  of  human  computation. 
Nothing  is  commoner,  then,  than  to  find  different 
people  habitually  using  the  same  word  to  express  per- 
fectly familiar  but  radically  dissimilar  ideas.  In  one 
of  Sardou’s  plays,  I remember,  an  ardent  free-thinker 
is  astonished  and  delighted  to  find  himself  in  com- 
plete accord  with  an  American  lady  on  the  subject  of 
the  general  villainy  of  the  priesthood ; and  a little 
later  appalled  to  discover  that  by  priests  the  lady  has 
understood  ecclesiastics  of  the  Roman  Catholic  com- 
munion, and  that  she  is  an  ardent  devotee  of  the 
more  evangelical  branch  of  the  Church  of  England. 

How  true,  how  inevitable  spontaneous  disagree- 
ment as  to  what  words  mean  must  be,  how  wholly 
inadequate  the  vocabularies  at  our  disposal  to  the 
infinite  shades  of  thought  and  feeling  we  must  use 
them  to  express,  nothing  can  show  more  clearly  than 
the  disputes,  in  talk  and  even  in  volumes,  which  are 
constantly  going  on  about  us.  More  of  these  than 
any  one  would  guess  who  has  not  carefully  examined 
them  turn  upon  what  seems  like  perverse  misunder- 
standing of  words.  What  does  a man  mean,  for 
example,  who  asserts  that  another  is  or  is  not  a gen- 
tleman ? To  one  the  question  turns  on  clothes ; to 
another  on  social  position  gauged  by  the  subtile  stand- 
ards of  fashion ; to  another  on  birth ; to  another  on 
manners ; to  another  on  those  still  more  subtile  things, 
the  feelings  which  go  to  make  up  character ; to  another 


WORDS. 


69 


still  on  a combination  of  some  or  all  of  these.  Last 
winter  a superannuated  fisherman  died  in  a little 
Yankee  village.  He  was  rough  enough  in  aspect  to 
delight  a painter ; if  he  could  read  and  write  it  was 
all  he  could  do.  But  there  was  about  the  man  a certain 
dignity  of  self-respect  which  made  him  at  ease  with 
whoever  spoke  to  him,  which  made  whoever  spoke  to 
him  at  ease  with  him.  I have  heard  fewr  more  fitting 
epitaphs  than  a phrase  used  by  a college  friend  of 
mine  who  knew  the  old  fellow  as  well  as  I : “ What  a 
gentleman  lie  was!”  But  one  who  heard  this  alone 
would  never  have  guessed  that  it  applied  to  an  un- 
couth old  figure,  not  over  clean,  that  until  a few 
months  ago  was  visibly  trudging  about  the  paths  of 
our  New  England  coast.  Just  such  misunderstand- 
ing as  any  of  us  can  see  would  arise  here,  underlies 
by  far  the  greater  part  of  what  disputes  come  to  my 
knowledge. 

I have  said  enough,  I take  it,  to  emphasize  the  enor- 
mous, inevitable  discrepancy  between  our  ideas  and 
the  few  outward  and  visible  signs  by  which  common 
consent  — good  use  — agrees  that  style  must  express 
them.  It  follows  from  this,  I think,  that  the  agree- 
ment of  good  use,  the  consent  which  makes  any  word 
mean  anything,  must  be  far  from  exact ; at  best  it  is 
approximate.  For  every-day  purposes  it  answers  fairly 
well ; for  the  finer  purposes  of  the  higher  literature 
it  often  proves  almost  hopelessly  inadequate. 

In  this  matter  I have  found  very  suggestive  the 
line  of  thought  started  in  my  head  a few  years  ago  by 


70 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


some  questions  circulated  by  certain  English  psycho- 
logists. What  ideas,  they  asked,  do  we  attach  to 
certain  extremely  familiar  words  and  signs,  — to  the 
letters  of  the  alphabet,  for  example,  or  such  a word 
as  man ? The  answers  to  their  questions  revealed 
certain  facts  that  I should  never  have  thought  of.  A 
considerable  number  of  sane  human  beings,  it  appears, 
attach  to  each  letter  of  the  alphabet  a distinct  color, 
probably  an  unconscious  reminiscence  of  the  illumi- 
nated alphabets  of  infancy.  For  my  own  part,  I found 
that  the  word  man  suggested  pretty  distinctly  a figure 
with  a clumsy  hat  and  a chin-beard,  poising  himself 
rather  unsteadily  on  his  left  leg.  I subsequently  dis- 
covered the  original  of  the  image  in  a copy  of  Mother 
Goose,  familiar  to  me  at  the  age  of  two  or  three. 
To  take  another  word,  which  we  considered  a little 
while  ago,  what  does  choir  mean?  Usage,  to  be  sure, 
gives  it  two  distinct  significations  : in  architecture  it 
means  the  part  of  a church  where  the  singers  stand ; 
hereabouts  it  generally  means  the  singers  themselves. 
In  the  phrase  from  Shakspere  that  we  considered, — 
“ Bare,  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang,” 
— the  second  meaning  is  excluded ; but  the  very  com- 
ment I made  on  the  line — that  the  eastern  sky  gleamed 
through  the  empty  tracery  — showed  that  to  me  the 
word  suggested  a Gothic  structure  viewed  from  the 
interior.  To  another  it  might  with  equal  propriety 
suggest  the  exterior  of  the  same  structure ; to  still 
another  the  whole  structure,  visible  from  no  particular 
point  of  view.  And  turning  to  the  other  meaning  of 


WORDS. 


71 


the  word,  does  choir  when  applied  to  singers  suggest 
a company  of  surpliced  boys  such  as  make  so  impres- 
sive some  of  the  services  of  the  Episcopal  Church, 
or  one  of  those  more  social  bodies  from  which,  the 
newspapers  tell  us,  sopranos  occasionally  elope  with 
tenors  ? 

We  have  come,  in  fact,  to  a point  where  we  can 
begin  to  appreciate  pretty  distinctly  the  actual  rela- 
tion that  exists  between  words  and  ideas.  Our  words 
are  at  most  so  few,  our  ideas  at  the  very  least  so 
many,  that  almost  every  word  we  possess  must  be 
pressed  into  service  for  very  various  ideas  ; and  what 
is  more,  that  no  idea  can  ever  be  called  up  in  our 
minds  by  a word,  without  the  suggestion  of  a con- 
siderable number  of  others  along  with  it.  Every 
word  we  use  in  defining  our  ideas  for  ourselves  must 
not  only  name  an  idea,  but  along  with  it  must  sug- 
gest, consciously  or  unconsciously,  a very  curiously 
complex  set  of  others.  Every  word  we  use  in  impart- 
ing our  ideas  to  other  people  must  likewise  arouse  in 
their  minds  a similar  curious  complexity  of  conscious 
or  sub-conscious  associations.  Here  is  a fact  that  we 
can  no  more  escape  than  we  can  escape  the  absolute 
authority  of  good  use  itself. 

We  are  now,  I think,  in  a position  to  appreciate 
more  fully  than  before  the  precise  problem  before  one 
who,  within  the  limits  of  good  use,  would  choose  for 
his  compositions  the  kinds  and  the  number  of  words 
which  shall  best  produce  the  effect  he  has  in  mind. 
It  is  not  what  it  seemed  at  first,  — simply  to  pitch 


72 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


upon  a word  by  which  good  use  has  agreed  with 
reasonable  approximation  to  name  the  idea  he  wishes 
to  arouse.  It  is  equally,  if  not  more,  to  make  sure 
that  the  word  he  chooses  shall  not  only  name  the 
idea  distinctly  enough  to  identify  it,  but  also  name 
it  by  a name  — if  such  a name  is  to  be  found  — 
which  shall  arouse  in  the  minds  of  whoever  read  or 
hear  it  a set  of  suggestions  as  nearly  as  possible 
akin  to  those  which  it  arouses  in  his  own.  Other- 
wise it  must,  in  all  probability,  fail  to  produce  the 
effect  he  has  in  mind. 

How  hard  this  is  we  can  see  by  thinking  for  a 
moment  of  the  various  associations  which  in  various 
companies  cluster  about  those  most  definitely  specific 
of  words,  — proper  names.  Every  school-boy,  I will 
assume,  has  known  who  Brutus  was,  any  time  these 
fifteen  hundred  years.  He  was  the  Roman  gentleman 
who  had  been  a close  personal  friend  of  Julius  Caesar, 
but  whose  devotion  to  the  old  constitution  of  the 
Roman  republic  led  him  to  join  in  the  conspiracy 
which  put  Caesar  to  death.  Shakspere’s  tragedy 
makes  Brutus,  to  English-speaking  people,  something 
of  a hero,  — a man  not  to  be  imitated,  perhaps,  but 
surely  to  be  admired  for  whole-hearted  devotion  to  the 
highest  ideals  he  knows.  In  the  “ Divine  Comedy  ” 
of  Dante,  on  the  other  hand,  Brutus  appears  in  a very 
different  light.  If  I am  not  in  error,  Dante  believed 
passionately  in  the  divine  right  of  the  Roman  em- 
pire ; to  him  Brutus  was  the  first  and  chiefest  of  the 
sinners  who  had  raised  their  hands  against  it.  In 


WORDS, 


73 


the  very  lowest  depth  of  hell  he  found  him  suffering 
the  penalty  of  the  gravest  but  one  of  human  crimes ; 
the  worst  torture  of  all  — only  a shade  worse  than 
his  — was  reserved  for  Judas  Iscariot.  Now,  if  there 
be  school-boys  trained  in  the  “ Divine  Comedy  ” as 
most  of  us  have  been  trained  in  Shakspere,  the  name 
“ Brutus  ” would  suggest  to  them  anything  but  our 
heroic  ideal.  Each  set  would  know  who  Brutus 
was ; but  the  one  set  would  think  of  him  as  a hero, 
the  other  as  one  who  deserved  worse  execration 
than  ever  Yankee  vented  on  Benedict  Arnold. 

After  all,  the  analogy  of  such  proper  names  as  I 
have  just  mentioned  is  perhaps  the  most  instructive 
to  which  I can  now  call  your  attention.  If  we  under- 
stand a proper  name  at  all,  we  know  to  what  human 
being  it  applies.  In  general,  his  outward  and  visible 
form,  lovely  or  unlovely,  rises  before  our  eyes  when 
we  hear  the  arbitrary  syllables  by  which  men  have 
agreed  to  name  him.  But  what  set  of  emotions  rises 
in  our  minds  along  with  this  imaginary  figure  varies 
almost  as  much  as  we  ourselves  vary  from  one  an- 
other. In  private  life  it  is  often  hard  to  guess  what 
these  emotions  will  be.  With  public  figures  the  case 
is  a little  different : it  is  safe  to  assume,  I think,  that 
the  name  of  Mr.  Jefferson  Davis,  calling  up  a slim 
figure  with  a slight  beard  under  the  chin,  would  arouse 
one  set  of  emotions  in  a citizen  of  Massachusetts, 
and  quite  another  in  a citizen  of  Mississippi.  Sensible 
people,  wishing  to  produce  distinct  rhetorical  effects, 
should  govern  their  use  of  the  name  Jefferson  Davis 


74 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


accordingly.  And  here  we  may  see,  as  distinctly  as 
anywhere,  the  two  functions  that  every  word,  every 
name  of  an  idea,  must  perform : in  the  first  place, 
it  nam6s  something  in  such  a way  as  to  identify  it ; 
in  the  second,  it  suggests  along  with  it  a very  subtile 
and  variable  set  of  associated  ideas  and  emotions. 

These  two  functions,  hardly  ever  quite  distinct  in 
style,  must  both  be  kept  in  mind  by  whoever  would 
use  words  — and,  as  we  shall  see  later,  by  whoever 
would  compose  words  — with  any  approach  to  cer- 
tainty. It  is  worth  while,  then,  to  name  them  now 
distinctly.  The  names  I give  them  are,  I believe, 
sanctioned  by  no  small  amount  of  usage ; but  even 
were  there  no  usage  behind  them  at  all,  I should  feel 
at  liberty,  with  such  definition  as  I hope  I have  given 
them,  to  use  them  in  this  book.  A word  may  be 
said,  then,  to  denote  the  idea  it  identifies ; Jefferson 
Davis  denotes  the  slim  gentleman  with  a slight  chin- 
beard.  A word  may  be  said  to  connote  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  that  it  arouses  in  the  hearer  or  reader, 
in  whose  mind  these  thoughts  and  emotions  habitually 
cluster  about  the  precise  idea  it  denotes : in  the  North, 
for  example,  the  name  Jefferson  Davis  connotes  the 
idea  of  treason ; in  the  South,  the  idea  of  patriotism. 
What  we  have  seen  true  of  this  proper  name  I shall 
ask  you  to  believe  true,  in  greater  or  less  degree,  of 
every  word  we  use. 

Now,  the  effect  which  we  may  wish  at  any  moment 
to  produce  is  a matter  not  of  denotation  alone,  nor  of 
connotation,  but  of  both  together.  Nor  is  it  a matter 


WORDS. 


75 


of  what  a given  word  may  denote  or  may  connote 
to  us  alone  ; it  is  a matter  of  what  that  fine  per- 
ception of  fact  which  marks  the  distinction  be- 
tween what  we  call  sanity  and  what  we  call  folly, 
leads  us  to  believe  that  the  word  will  at  once  denote 
and  connote  in  the  minds  of  those  whom  we  address. 
And  this  is  the  consideration  that  must  govern  us  in 
our  choice  of  words,  Latin  or  Saxon,  big  or  little, 
general  or  specific,  figurative  or  literal ; and  in  our 
choice  of  number  of  words,  many  or  few.  A very 
fine  question  this  proves  to  be,  — depressing,  perhaps, 
at  first  sight,  for  it  is  clear  that  ideal  perfection  is  as 
unattainable  in  the  use  of  words  as  in  other  phases 
of  our  conduct  of  life.  But  what  is  unattainable  is 
not  for  that  unapproachable  ; and  I believe  that  there 
are  few  things  in  this  world  more  constantly,  more 
increasingly  stimulating  than  unceasing,  earnest  effort 
to  approach  more  and  more  nearly  an  ideal  which  is 
all  the  more  worth  striving  for  when  we  are  sure  that 
it  will  never  repay  us  with  the  fatal  satiety  of  full 
possession. 


III. 


SENTENCES. 

A sentence  I may  define  as  a series  of  words  so 
composed  as  to  make  complete  sense.  In  its  sim- 
plest form  it  consists  of  a subject  — the  thing  con- 
cerning which  a completely  sensible  assertion  is  made 
— and  a predicate,  the  assertion  made.  There  may  or 
may  not  be  objects  and  modifiers.  I study , is  a sen- 
tence ; so  is,  I study  Rhetoric  ; so  is,  I study  Rhetoric 
with  pleasure  in  spite  of  its  apparent  dulness  ; and 
so  on.  But  a true  sentence  may  always,  I think,  be 
analyzed  into  subject,  or  sometimes  subjects,  and 
predicate,  or  sometimes  predicates,  with  occasional 
modifiers,  — objects,  adjectives,  adverbs,  what  not. 
For  various  purposes,  it  may  take  various  forms,  — 
positive,  negative,  interrogative,  exclamatory,  — but 
so  long  as  it  remains  a composition  of  words,  and  of 
nothing  but  words,  which  makes  complete  sense,  it  is 
a sentence. 

I need  hardly  remind  you  that  sentences  are  as  old 
as  language  itself.  Until  a child  is  able  to  put  words 
together  we  do  not,  unless  blinded  by  affection,  pre- 
tend that  the  child  can  really  talk.  The  moment  he 
can  put  words  together,  the  moment  he  begins  to  ex- 


SENTENCES. 


77 


press  ideas,  not  independently,  but  with  a growing  sense 
of  their  mutual  relations,  he  begins  to  make  sentences. 
In  the  composition  of  sentences,  then,  we  are  con- 
trolled by  a system  of  good  use  as  old  as  the  language 
we  employ  ; and  this  system  of  good  use  which  tells 
us  how  we  may  compose  words  in  sentences  is  what 
has  been  codified  so  often  under  the  depressing  name 
of  “ grammar.”  In  some  languages,  certainly  as  they 
were  taught  in  my  day,  grammar  is  appalling.  The 
Latin  grammars  that  we  used  to  learn  by  heart  in  the 
good  old  times  were  dreadful  things, — not  only  because 
we  were  generally  made  to  learn  them  by  heart  before 
we  had  any  real  knowledge  of  what  the  phrases  they 
codified  meant,  but  because  the  number  and  variety 
of  the  forms  assumed  by  almost  every  word  in  the 
Latin  language  is  in  itself  bewildering.  In  English, 
on  the  other  hand,  we  are  grammatically  so  fortunate 
that  people  fond  of  epigram  have  said  with  a shade 
of  truth  that  English  has  no  grammar  at  all.  This 
means  that  English  has  fewer  inflections  than  almost 
any  other  language.  What  is  more,  its  other  gram- 
matical forms  are  surprisingly  simple  : gender,  for 
example,  instead  of  being  arbitrary,  corresponds  with 
physical  fact;  double  negatives  are  really  equivalent 
to  affirmatives.  The  forms  assumed  by  English  words, 
in  short,  are  so  few  and  so  simple  that  anybody  who 
knows  the  language  at  all  knows  them  at  sight, — 
what  singulars  are,  for  example,  and  plurals,  and  pos- 
sessives,  and  past  tenses.  Now  when  a composition 
involves  incongruity  — a violation  of  common-sense  — 


78 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


almost  anybody  can  see  it.  We  was  there , for  exam- 
ple, does  not  make  sense  ; the  word  we  means  that 
there  were  more  than  one  of  us,  the  word  was  confines 
the  number  present  to  one.  So  “ that  girl  is  putting 
on  its  gloves  ” does  not  make  sense  ; all  girls  are  femi- 
nine, at  least  in  English  grammar,  and  the  function 
of  the  neuter  in  English  is  to  strike  out  all  notion  of 
sex.  What  is  true  in  these  very  simple  cases  seems 
to  me  true  in  all.  In  English,  good  use  in  composi- 
tion is  a question  chiefly  of  good  sense  ; I have  yet  to 
find  a sentence  that  makes  good  sense  — and  anybody 
who  knows  what  words  mean  can  tell,  with  a little 
thought,  whether  a sentence  makes  good  sense  or  not 
— that  is  not  good  English. 

In  considering,  then,  what  forms  of  composition  are 
sanctioned  by  English  grammar,  — by  the  good  use 
that  must  govern  us  in  composing  words,  — I have 
found  the  most  convenient  plan  to  be  this  : putting 
aside  formal  grammar,  I ask  myself  of  a given  con- 
struction whether  it  makes  good  sense  ; if  so,  I find 
it  good  English.  The  only  serious  question  that 
arises  concerns  constructions  that  in  analysis  do  not 
make  good  sense.  Most  of  them  are  what  we  call 
Solecisms,  — a convenient  single  word  for  grammatical 
blunders ; but  some  fall  under  another  head.  Like 
every  other  language,  English  possesses  very  irregular 
forms  or  phrases  which  good  use  has  abundantly  sanc- 
tioned. These,  which  give  a very  subtilely  effective 
turn  to  style,  we  call  Idioms.  Before  asserting  that  a 
construction  which  does  not  make  good  sense  is  a 


SENTENCES. 


79 


blunder,  we  must  make  sure  that  it  is  not  an  Idiom. 
If  a given  construction  does  not  make  good  sense,  and 
is  not  an  Idiom,  it  is  a Solecism ; and  a Solecism  is 
a violation  of  good  use.  That  seems  to  me  the  whole 
story. 

One  or  two  very  simple  examples  will  illustrate  this 
matter  as  well  as  more  elaborate  ones.  Take  a phrase 
that  any  of  us  who  are  much  in  the  country  often 
hear  : “ Was  yon  there  ? ” Now,  was  is  singular,  and 
you  is  plural ; obviously  there  is  an  incongruity  here 
not  consistent  with  good  sense.  But  English  usage 
has  agreed  with  that  of  most  other  languages  in  dis- 
carding the  second  person  singular.  The  plural  form 
you  is  the  one  which  the  accumulated  courtesies  of 
several  centuries  compel  us  to  use  in  addressing  even 
sweethearts  and  servants.  Does  English  usage,  then, 
sanction  the  incongruity  you  was  ? At  present  it  cer- 
tainly does  not.  Yet  a slight  examination  of  some  of 
the  best  writers  of  the  last  century  will  show  that 
certainly  as  late  as  the  time  of  Fielding,  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  good  authority  for  you  was , when  the 
second  person  singular  was  intended  ; that  you  were 
was  reserved  for  a distinct  plural.  You  was , then, 
may  be  said  once  to  have  been  idiomatic ; present 
use  makes  it  a Solecism.  Take  another  phrase,  which 
few  of  us  fail  to  utter  every  week : it  is  me.  Now, 
clearly  the  word  after  the  verb  is  should  be  gram- 
matically in  agreement  with  the  subject  of  the  verb. 
Clearly,  too,  the  subject  of  the  verb  is  nominative  ; and 
apparently  the  form  me,  one  of  the  very  few  inflections 


80 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


which  remain  in  English,  is  not  nominative,  but  objec- 
tive. No  question  could  occur  with  a noun  : it  is  John , 
it  is  the  man , for  example,  would  be  unchanged  in 
form  if  English  usage  should  choose  to  demand  an 
objective  instead  of  a nominative  case  after  the  verb. 
Clearly,  too,  it  is  him  is  wrong ; and  it  is  her.  But 
how  about  it  is  me  and  it  is  If  Everybody  knows 
that  the  latter  form  is  logically  the  true  one ; most  of 
us  have  been  reproved  over  and  over  again  for  our 
depraved  persistency  in  the  use  of  the  former.  But, 
as  a matter  of  fact,  has  not  good  use  gone  a long  way 
to  make  it  is  me  idiomatic,  and  it  is  I a bit  pedantic  ? 
I do  not  feel  at  all  sure  that  we  can  answer  No. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  English  usage  which  gener- 
ally seems  most  arbitrary,  seems  to  me  really  reduci- 
ble to  a matter  of  the  simplest  common-sense.  I 
refer  to  the  use  of  shall  and  will.  Shall  is  the  normal 
form  of  the  future  : its  literal  meaning  is  absolutely 
prophetic ; I shall  come,  for  example,  settles  the  ques- 
tion of  my  coming.  Will , on  the  other  hand,  implies 
distinct  volition.  I will  come,  means,  clearly  enough; 
that  I should  like  to  come  very  much.  In  the  first 
person,  in  predicting  our  own  conduct,  we  use  the 
auxiliaries  with  their  literal  meaning.  In  the  second 
person  and  the  third,  we  find  the  case  apparently 
changed : we  say  not  you  shall  come,  but  you  will 
come ; not  it  shall  rain,  but  it  will  rain.  Why  ? Sim- 
ply and  solely,  I believe,  because  as  a matter  of  good 
sense,  or  at  least  of  good  manners,  we  cannot  ration- 
ally or  decently  assume  such  control  of  persons  or 


SENTENCES. 


81 


things  other  than  ourselves  as  to  risk  a distinct 
prophecy  about  them.  To  say  you  shall  come  would 
be  to  assume  complete  control  of  your  conduct;  to 
say  it  shall  rain , to  assume  complete  control  of  the 
weather.  As  a matter  of  courtesy,  then,  we  use  will 
when  we  utter  predictions  about  persons  other  than 
ourselves,  — implying  their  consent  to  the  line  of 
conduct  we  assert  them  about  to  follow ; and  pure 
idiom,  personifying  such  impersonal  things  as  the 
weather,  makes  will  the  word  by  which,  in  such  ques- 
tions as  that  about  rain,  we  rid  ourselves  of  the 
assumption  of  impossible  authority  or  responsibility. 
In  a word,  I have  found  this  rule  invariable : Shall  is 
the  normal  form  of  the  future  tense.  Unless  good 
sense  or  good  manners  forbid,  it  should  be  used ; but 
when  good  sense  or  good  manners  forbid  us  to  as- 
sume control  of  the  subject  of  the  verb,  we  should  use 
will. 

To  put  the  whole  matter  in  a slightly  different  way, 
a Solecism  — a construction  not  sanctioned  by  English 
usage  — is  reducible  to  a mode  of  Impropriety : it 
really  amounts  to  using  an  English  word,  or  English 
words,  in  a sense  not  sanctioned  by  English  usage. 
It  differs  from  a simple  Impropriety  only  in  the  fact 
that  the  misuse  is  not  obvious  until  we  consider  the 
word  misused,  not  alone,  but  in  its  relation  to  the  con- 
text ; and  under  the  head  of  Solecism  must  fall  all 
violations  of  good  use  in  compositions. 

This  is  certainly  true  at  least  of  style  in  its  broader 
sense,  which  includes  spoken  discourse  as  well  as 

6 


82 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


written.  In  written  discourse,  however,  there  is  one 
peculiar  feature  of  rather  late  growth,  which  deserves 
independent  consideration.  This  feature,  wholly  ab- 
sent from  spoken  discourse,  addressed  solely  to  the 
eye,  and  very  bewildering  to  most  people,  is  punctua- 
tion. Certain  marks  of  punctuation  — interrogation- 
marks,  exclamation-points,  signs  of  quotation  — are 
easy  enough  to  manage.  Periods  rarely  give  much 
trouble  to  anybody  who  stops  to  think.  But  commas, 
and  above  all  semi-colons  and  colons,  are  dreadfully 
puzzling ; and  I have  never  yet  come  across  a book  on 
the  subject  which  did  not  leave  me  more  puzzled  than 
it  found  me.  I have  tried  to  discover  some  general 
principle  beneath  the  practice  — the  manifold  forms 
of  good  use  — now  in  vogue.  I do  not  feel  completely 
satisfied  with  the  form  which  the  principle  I find 
there  takes  in  my  mind ; but  at  all  events,  it  has 
proved  suggestive.  In  spoken  discourse,  vocal  em- 
phasis and  pauses  indicate  where  we  wish  the  hearers’ 
attention  to  centre.  In  written  discourse,  addressed 
solely  to  the  eye,  such  emphasis  is  impossible.  Some 
substitute  is  necessary ; otherwise  no  one  word,  no 
one  part  of  a composition,  appears  any  more  signifi- 
cant than  another.  The  crude  substitutes  — italics, 
capitals,  and  the  like  — prove  in  practice  too  crude. 
Good  use,  then,  has  fallen  back  on  punctuation,  whose 
function,  very  generally  stated,  is  to  do  for  the  eye 
what  emphasis  does  for  the  ear,  — to  group  sepa- 
rately those  words  and  thoughts  which  for  the 
purpose  in  hand  should  be  separately  grouped  ;•  and 


SENTENCES. 


83 


so  far  as  the  good  use  which  governs  the  order  of 
words  will  permit,  to  arrest  the  eye  for  an  instant 
on  those  words  on  which  it  is  desirable  to  arrest 
the  attention. 

Patting  aside  interrogations  and  exclamations,  the 
period  is  the  strongest  mark  of  punctuation  ; it  marks 
the  limits  of  sentences.  The  next  strongest  mark 
is  the  colon ; weaker,  but  still  stronger  than  the 
comma,  is  the  semicolon;  weakest  and  most  frequent 
of  all  is  the  comma.  In  a given  place,  as  we  shall 
see  later,  we  may  often  with  perfect  propriety  use  any 
of  these  four  marks  ; the  question  in  such  cases,  the 
question  in  general,  is  what  we  wish  to  group  to- 
gether, what  to  emphasize,  and  how  strong  to  make 
our  emphasis. 

Now,  usage  clearly  does  not  permit  us  to  put  marks 
of  punctuation  wherever  we  please.  In  putting  into 
practice  this  very  general  principle  that  punctuation 
does  for  the  eye  what  vocal  stress  does  for  the  ear,  we 
must  constantly  keep  in  mind  a rational  sense  of  how 
far  we  may  go.  But  within  the  limits  of  good  use,  I 
have  found  this  principle,  I have  said,  extremely  sug- 
gestive. So  much  for  good  use  in  the  composition  of 
sentences.  Our  next  business  is  to  inquire  whether 
within  the  limits  of  good  use  there  are  any  specific 
kinds  of  sentences  which  deserve  special  attention, 
any  types  of  sentence  which  on  general  principles  we 
should  prefer  to  others. 

In  discussing  a similar  question  about  words,  you 
will  remember,  I began  by  mentioning  certain  com- 


84 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


monplaces  current  about  the  matters  in  hand.  At 
the  beginning  of  my  first  chapter,  I mentioned  one 
commonplace  about  sentences  which  is  constantly 
turning  up.  Are  not  short  sentences,  I am  asked 
again  and  again,  a great  deal  better  than  long  ones  ? 
Perhaps  the  simplest  way  of  considering  what  effects 
may  be  produced  by  various  kinds  of  sentences  is  to 
examine  this  commonplace,  to  see  how  much  truth 
there  is  in  it,  and  why. 

Before  reaching  any  definite  conclusion  about  long 
sentences  and  short,  however,  we  may  conveniently 
fix  in  our  minds  another,  and  a far  more  exact,  clas- 
sification of  sentences,  — that  which  divides  them  into 
periodic  and  loose.  Bain’s  definition  of  a period  — 
another  name  for  a periodic  sentence  — will  at  once 
help  us  to  understand  this  classification  and  illustrate 
it.  “ In  a period,”  he  says,  “ the  sense  is  suspended 
until  the  end.  Sentences  where  this  is  not  the  case 
are  termed  loose.”  Here  are  two  sentences  : are  they 
periodic  or  loose  ? The  first  runs  thus,  “ In  a period 
the  sense  is  suspended  until  the  end.”  Now,  clearly 
the  words,  “ In  a period  the  sense  is  suspended,”  make 
complete  sense,  and  would  be  a perfectly  grammatical 
sentence,  even  if  the  words  “ until  the  end  ” never 
appeared  at  all.  According  to  itself,  then,  this  sen- 
tence is  not  a period.  What  it  is  the  next  sentence 
tells  us : 66  Sentences  where  this  is  not  the  oase,”  it 
runs,  “ are  termed  loose.”  Bain’s  first  sentence,  then, 
is  slightly  loose,  at  the  word  suspended ; his  second, 
where  the  sense  is  incomplete  until  the  very  last 


SENTENCES. 


85 


word, — in  other  words,  where  the  sense  is  suspended 
until  the  end,  — is,  like  the  clause  I am  now  writing, 
incontestably  periodic. 

This  classification  is  obviously  exact.  Every  sen- 
tence that  was  ever  composed,  every  sentence  that 
ever  will  be,  must  be  either  periodic  or  loose.  And  in 
almost  any  writer  whose  work  you  choose  to  examine 
you  will  find  examples  of  both  kinds.  Nobody  that  I 
know  of  has  written  wholly  in  periods ; hardly  any- 
body has  avoided  periods  altogether.  But  almost 
every  writer  will  be  found,  on  examination  with  this 
matter  in  view,  generally  to  prefer  one  of  these  kinds 
of  sentence  to  the  other ; and  according  as  a writer 
tends  to  the  use  of  periodic  sentences  or  of  loose,  his 
style  may,  without  too  great  a stretch  of  propriety, 
be  roughly  called  a periodic  or  a loose  style.  On  the 
whole,  the  most  periodic  of  modern  English  writers 
seems  to  be  De  Quincey ; the  loosest,  Carlyle.  To 
get  a notion  of  the  striking  difference  of  effect  se- 
cured by  their  different  habits  of  syntax,  you  may 
well  compare  passages  from  them  taken  almost  at 
random. 

Of  course,  there  is  between  them  a marked  differ- 
ence in  temper;  but  difference  in  temper,  we  must 
always  keep  in  mind,  can  reveal  itself  in  literature 
only  by  means  of  the  choice  and  the  composition  of 
the  elements  of  style.  And  though  De  Quincey’s 
choice  of  words  differs  notably  from  Carlyle’s,  it  does 
not,  in  my  opinion,  differ  by  any  means  as  notably 
as  his  general  habit  of  thought,  evinced  by  his  gener- 


86 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


ally  periodic  composition.  The  sustained,  somewhat 
pompous,  but,  to  my  thinking,  dignified  character  of 
De  Quincey’s  prose  is  largely  an  affair  of  periods ; 
the  slashing  vigor  of  Carlyle’s  prose,  the  startling 
strength  of  many  of  his  unexpected  strokes,  is  largely 
an  affair  of  deliberately  loose  sentences. 

With  an  appreciation  of  the  marked  difference  in 
effect  produced  by  loose  style  and  by  periodic,  we  may 
now  inquire  whether  there  is  any  reason  for  prefer- 
ring either  in  general.  Theoretically,  I believe  there 
is  a good  case  for  the  periodic.  It  is  best  stated,  I 
think,  by  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer,  in  a paper  called, 
“ The  Philosophy  of  Style,”  which  is  remarkable,  like 
a good  deal  of  his  work,  for  being  very  ill  written. 
In  brief,  I understand  his  position  to  be  this : In  a 
loose  style,  the  mind  of  the  reader  tends  constantly 
to  pause,  to  grasp  the  complete  idea,  at  each  point 
where  the  sense  is  grammatically  complete ; and  each 
added  clause  involves  not  only  the  addition  of  some 
new  features  to  an  idea  that  one  is  tempted  to  con- 
sider complete  without  them,  but  often  also  the  un- 
making of  an  idea  into  which  the  logically  incomplete 
if  grammatically  complete  statements  of  the  earlier 
portions  of  the  sentence  have  led  us.  In  a periodic 
style,  though  the  attention  is  sometimes  strained, 
there  is  far  less  liability  to  error.  The  whole  principle 
may  be  very  simply  illustrated  by  considering  three 
words,  first  as  the  English  arrange  them,  and  then  as 
the  French.  aA  black  horse,”  we  say;  the  French 
say,  “ un  cheval  noir.”  Off-hand,  anybody  would 


SENTENCES. 


8T 


declare  one  order  exactly  as  good  as  the  other.  But 
repeat  to  yourself  the  words,  u a black  horse,”  and 
see  what  image  arises  in  your  mind : once  for  all,  it 
will  be  a black  horse,  mane,  tail,  and  hide.  Then  say 
to  yourself,  “a  horse,”  — the  English  equivalent  of 
the  French  “ un  cheval : ” unless  your  experience  aud 
habit  of  mind  be  different  from  that  of  everybody  I 
have  carefully  examined  on  this  point,  the  image  that 
will  form  itself  in  your  mind  will  have  a bay  hide. 
Hereabouts,  at  any  rate,  the  typical  horse  is  a bay. 
Now  add  to  the  words,  “ a horse,”  or  “ un  cheval,”  the 
adjective  “ black,”  or  “ noir,”  and  see  what  happens : 
you  have  to  destroy  your  bay  image  before  you  finally 
possess  yourself  of  the  proper  black  one.  The  Eng- 
lish form,  “ a black  horse,”  is  periodic,  — it  conveys  the 
whole  idea  at  once  ; the  French  form,  “ un  cheval  noir,” 
is  loose,  — it  conveys  the  idea  in  two  distinct  parts, 
the  first  complete  in  itself,  and  subtilely  misleading. 
What  is  true  of  these  three  words  I have  found  to  be 
true  of  periodic  and  loose  style  in  general.  And 
broadly  speaking,  the  looser  style  gets,  the  worse 
the  trouble  grows.  Theoretically,  the  best  style  is 
periodic. 

When  we  come  to  practice,  however,  we  find  our 
theory  decidedly  limited.  As  I said  a little  while 
ago,  no  writer  can  be  found  whose  sentences  fall  in- 
variably into  one  class  or  the  other.  This  means,  of 
course,  that  to  write  wholly  in  either  periodic  or  loose 
sentences  would  be  to  violate  the  unanimous  usage 
of  English  literature ; and  unanimous  usage  of  this 


88 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


kind  is  apt,  like  commonplace,  to  rest  upon  some  per- 
manent fact.  In  this  case  the  permanent  fact  is  not 
far  tp  seek.  In  uninflected  English,  the  relation  of 
word  to  word  is  generally  indicated  by  their  order. 
Much  to  alter  this  order  is  to  alter  or  destroy  their 
meaning.  The  English  language,  then,  is  normally 
loose.  A single  example  will  illustrate  what  I mean : 
The  style  of  Caesar’s  Commentaries  is  approved  by 
Latin  scholars.  Here  is  a literal  translation  of  one 
of  Caesar’s  elaborately  inflected  periods,  taken  from 
the  first  page  at  which  I opened  the  book : “ At  the 
same  about  time,  Publius  Crassus,  when  into  Aqui- 
tania  he  was  come  (which  region,  as  before  said  has 
been,  both  of  territory  in  extent,  and  in  number  of 
inhabitants,  for  a third  part  of  Gaul  is  counted)  when 
he  had  understood,  in  this  region  by  him  war  to 
be  carried  on,  where  a few  before  years  Lucius  Vale- 
rius, the  legate,  army  defeated,  killed  had  been,  and 
whence  Lucius  Manlius,  the  proconsul,  baggage  lost, 
had  retreated,  not  small  by  him  care  to  be  taken 
understood.”  Absolutely  periodic  this  arrangement, 
logically  admirable  from  beginning  to  the  end,  but 
no  more  like  English  than  I to  Hercules.  To  make 
English  at  all,  we  must  ruthlessly  loosen  it,  for  ex- 
ample, thus  : “ About  the  same  time  Publius  Crassus 
arrived  in  Aquitania,  a region,  which,  as  I have  said  be- 
fore, is  accounted  in  both  territory  and  population  a 
third  part  of  Gaul.  Here  he  was  to  carry  on  the  war ; 
here,  he  remembered,  Lucius  Valerius,  the  legate, 
had  a few  years  before  been  routed  and  killed ; 


SENTENCES. 


89 


from  hence  Lucius  Manlius,  the  proconsul,  had  re- 
treated, with  the  loss  of  his  baggage.  Clearly, 
Crassus  understood,  he  must  keep  his  wits  about 
him.” 

I have  said  enough,  I hope,  to  show  that  the  fun- 
damental difference  between  periodic  sentences  and 
loose  is  about  the  same  as  the  fundamental  differ- 
ences we  discussed  between  different  kinds  of  words, 
— Latin  and  Saxon,  big  and  little,  and  so  on  : it  is  a 
difference  of  effect.  And  I hope  I have  said  enough 
to  show  why,  on  the  whole,  I think  the  effect  secured 
by  an  approach  to  the  periodic  form  the  better.  But 
I have  shown  too  how  remote  the  usage  of  uninflected 
English  compels  such  an  approach  to  be.  In  short,  I 
have  explained  as  fully  as  I can  here  why  it  is  my 
custom  to  advise  pupils  to  make  their  style  as  periodic 
as  they  can  without  palpable  artifice. 

In  a very  few  words,  I can  now  answer  the  ques- 
tion with  which  we  started  this  part  of  our  in- 
quiry : Are  not  short  sentences  preferable  to  long  ? 
What  long  sentences  are,  and  short,  I leave  to  your 
common-sense ; what  anybody  can  perceive  needs  no 
definition.  I refer  to  your  common-sense,  too,  the 
obvious  fact  that  monotonous  adherence  to  any  one 
form  of  sentence  — or  to  any  given  line  of  conduct 
at  all  — is  apt  to  be  exquisitely  annoying.  But  from 
what  I have  said,  it  should  be  clear  that  the  longer  a 
sentence  is,  the  harder  it  is  to  make  the  sentence 
periodic,  the  more  breaks  there  are  apt  to  be  in  the 
sense.  Very  broadly  speaking,  the  effect  produced 


90 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


by  a style  in  which  short  periodic  sentences  predomi- 
nate is  more  satisfactory  than  that  produced  by  a 
style  full  of  long  and  loose  ones,  or  of  long  ones  whose 
periodicity  is  secured  only  by  palpable  artifice;  and 
this  position  I believe  in  a general  way  to  be  main- 
tained by  the  historic  development  of  English  style 
during  the  last  three  centuries. 

Of  course  such  a fact  as  this  — that  the  historic 
development  of  style  has  followed  a certain  course 
— can  be  proved  only  by  prolonged  study,  by  great 
accumulation  of  evidence.  Even  if  I had  collected 
enough  to  make  my  conclusions  incontestable,  I 
could  not  lay  much  of  it  before  you  here ; and,  in 
fact,  I do  not  pretend  that  my  opinion  is  more  than 
an  opinion.  At  the  same  time,  I believe  that  I may 
well  offer  you  a few  examples  of  the  evidence  which 
has  led  me  to  it ; for  while  they  indicate  something 
concerning  the  general  development  of  English  style, 
they  also  illustrate,  pretty  distinctly,  some  of  the 
principles  to  which  I have  still  to  call  your  attention. 
In  choosing  them,  I have  followed  this  plan-:  With 
all  its  almost  infinite  variations,  each  period  of  any 
national  history  has  a character  peculiarly  its  own. 
This  character  is  very  hard  to  define,  but  by  no 
means  hard  to  recognize.  We  all  know,  in  a certain 
way,  what  connotation  clusters  about  the  words  Eliza- 
bethan, Cavalier,  Puritan,  Restoration,  Queen  Anne, 
Eighteenth  Century.  Certain  types  of  face,  types  of 
fashion  still  more  marked,  contribute  to  the  subtilely 
different  impressions  that  each  succeeding  epoch  in 


SENTENCES. 


91 


national  life  makes  even  on  a superficial  student. 
Now,  one  who  begins  to  know  even  a little  of  litera- 
ture begins  to  feel  instinctively  that  at  each  period 
of  national  history  there  arises  a style  which,  very 
subtilely,  expresses  that  period  and  no  other.  With 
all  his  genius,  that  bids  fair  to  make  his  writings 
permanently  contemporary,  Shakspere  remains  — and 
the  better  we  know  him  the  more  we  feel  it  — Eliza- 
bethan. Milton  is  not  only  Milton,  but  a man  and  a 
poet  of  the  seventeenth  century.  In  Gray  we  have 
something  that  belongs  as  much  to  the  palmy  days 
of  the  Georges  as  powdered  wigs  do  and  furbelows ; 
in  Wordsworth,  something  that  is  full  of  the  spirit 
which  marked  the  first  part  of  our  own  century ; 
in  Browning,  something  peculiarly  of  our  own  time. 
Guided  at  first  only  by  this  instinctive  sense  of  what 
makes  a given  piece  of  style  — like  a given  costume 
— characteristic  of  a given  epoch,  I select  a few 
characteristic  examples  of  English  style  at  different 
periods  of  national  life,  between  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  our  own.  Then,  always  remembering 
that  the  effects  of  style  are  produced  only  by  means 
of  the  choice  and  composition  of  the  elements,  I 
proceed  to  analyze  them  — as  far  as  may  be  — and 
to  discover  what  gives  each  its  peculiar  character. 
For  the  moment,  of  course,  I confine  my  analysis  to 
the  composition  of  sentences. 

Unable  to  choose  many  examples,  I take  half  at 
random  passages  from  four  writers,  each  of  whom, 
despite  his  individuality,  is  typical  of  his  own  cen- 


92 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


tury : Sir  Walter  Ralegh  of  the  sixteenth,  — the  age 
of  Elizabeth ; Sir  Thomas  Browne  of  the  seventeenth, 

— the  age  of  the  Stuarts ; Henry  Fielding  of  the 
eighteenth,  — the  age  of  the  Georges ; Lord  Macaulay 
of  the  nineteenth,  — the  age  of  Victoria. 

From  Ralegh  I take  his  famous  apostrophe  to 
Death,  which  closes  the  great  “ History  of  the  World,” 

— the  book  which  busied  his  thirteen  years  of  im- 
prisonment in  the  Tower  of  London : — 

“ O eloquent,  just,  and  mighty  Death ! whom  none 
could  advise,  thou  hast  persuaded ; what  none  hath 
dared,  thou  hast  done ; and  whom  all  the  world  hath 
flattered,  thou  only  hast  cast  out  of  the  world  and  de- 
spised : thou  hast  drawn  together  all  the  far-stretched 
greatness,  all  the  pride,  cruelty,  and  ambition  of  man, 
and  covered  it  all  over  with  these  two  narrow  words, 
Hie  jacet.” 

Long  we  find  it,  and  very  loose,  in  spite  of  its  surg- 
ing cadences. 

From  Sir  Thomas  Browne  I take  the  famous  sen- 
tence from  his  “ Urn-Burial  ” which  was  so  dear  to 
De  v luincey  : — 

“ N >w,  since  these  dead  bones  have  already  outlasted 
the  lrv  ng  ones  of  Methuselah,  and  in  a yard  under- 
ground, and  thin  walls  of  clay,  outworn  all  the  strong 
and  spacious  buildings  above  it,  and  quietly  rested  under 
the  drums  and  tramplings  of  three  conquests,  what  prince 
can  promise  such  diuturnity  unto  his  relics,  or  might  not 
gladly  say,  Sic  ego  componi  versus  in  ossa  velim?” 


SENTENCES. 


93 


Still  long,  but  no  longer  loose,  this  sentence.  Elabo- 
rately, carefully,  artificially  periodic ; modelled,  indeed, 
on  inflected  Latin. 

From  Fielding  I take,  even  more  at  random,  a bit 
of  “ Tom  Jones  ” : — 

u Now,  there  is  no  one  circumstance  in  which  the  dis- 
tempers of  the  mind  bear  a more  exact  analogy  to  those 
which  are  called  bodily,  than  in  the  aptness  which  both 
have  to  a relapse.  This  is  plain  in  the  violent  diseases 
of  ambition  and  avarice.  I have  known  ambition,  when 
cured  at  court  by  frequent  disappointments  (which  are 
the  only  physic  for  it) , to  break  out  again  in  a contest 
for  foreman  of  the  grand  jury  at  an  assizes,  and  have 
heard  of  a man  who  had  so  far  conquered  avarice  as  to 
give  away  many  a sixpence,  that  comforted  himself  at 
last  on  his  deathbed,  by  making  a crafty  and  advanta- 
geous bargain  concerning  his  ensuing  funeral  with  an 
undertaker  who  had  married  his  only  child.” 

The  first  two  sentences  here  are  much  shorter. 
Written  English  has  come  a great  deal  nearer  spoken. 
Considering  the  idiomatic  freedom  of  the  style,  it 
proves  on  examination  surprisingly  periodic ; but 
Fielding’s  periodicity  is  nothing  like  so  palpably  arti- 
ficial as  Sir  Thomas  Browne’s. 

From  Macaulay  I take,  much  at  random  too,  a few 
sentences  from  his  essay  on  Warren  Hastings : — 

“ With  all  his  faults  — and  they  were  neither  few  nor 
small  — only  one  cemetery  was  worthy  to  contain  his  re- 
mains. In  that  temple  of  silence  and  reconciliation  where 
the  enmities  of  twenty  generations  lie  buried,  in  the  Great 


94 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


Abbey  which  has  during  many  ages  afforded  a quiet  rest- 
ing-place to  those  whose  minds  and  bodies  have  been 
shattered  by  the  contentions  of  the  Great  Hall,  the  dust 
of  the  illustrious  accused  should  have  mingled  with  the 
dust  of  the  illustrious  accusers.  This  was  not  to  be.  Yet 
the  place  of  interment  was  not  ill  chosen.  Behind  the 
chancel  of  the  parish  church  of  Daylesford,  in  earth  which 
already  held  the  bones  of  many  chiefs  of  the  house  of 
Hastings,  was  laid  the  coffin  of  the  greatest  man  who  has 
ever  borne  that  ancient  and  widely  extended  name.” 

Short  sentences  and  long  we  find  here,  deliberately 
intermixed.  Periodic,  every  one  of  them.  Artifi- 
cial, if  you  please : the  nineteenth  century  is  nothing 
if  not  self-conscious.  But  the  free  periodicity  of 
Macaulay,  frankly  recognizing  the  limits  of  a lan- 
guage where  the  order  of  words  chiefly  determines 
the  relation  of  thoughts,  is  a wonderfully  different 
thing  from  the  half-Latin  periodicity  of  two  cen- 
turies before. 

Of  course,  these  few  examples  indicate  the  develop- 
ment of  style  in  a very  rough  way.  They  prove  noth- 
ing, unless  very  careful  and  detailed  study  prove  them 
typical.  Personally,  I incline  to  believe  that  it  would. 
But  putting  that  question  aside,  these  examples  cer- 
tainly show  how  varied  the  effects  are  which  can  be 
produced  within  the  limits  of  periodic  sentences  alone, 
and  how  far  from  modern  a style  must  be  whose  peri- 
odicity is  laboriously  artificial.  They  show  too,  with 
much  distinctness,  another  trait  in  the  composition  of 
sentences  which  is  worth  keeping  in  mind.  In  each 


SENTENCES. 


95 


of  the  four  extracts  the  sentences  are  balanced.  The 
balance  of  Ralegh’s  clauses  is  very  obvious  and  sim- 
ple,— as  obvious  as  that  of  the  Psalms.  In  the  passage 
from  Sir  Thomas  Browne  is  a clause  whose  balance  is 
to  me  the  most  exquisite  I have  found  in  the  lan- 
guage : to  see  just  what  is  meant  by  balance,  then, 
we  cannot  do  better  than  study  it  for  a moment 
in  detail : — 

“ Quietly  rested  under  the  drums  and  tramplings  of  three  conquests .” 

1 2 3 3 2 1 

Not  only  every  significant  word  in  this  clause  has 
one  to  balance  it ; but  the  main  consonantal  sounds  of 
each  balancing  pair  are  identical,  and  yet  so  subtilely 
varied  that  though  the  exquisite  art  of  the  phrase 
is  not  exquisite  enough  to  seem  quite  artless,  few 
would  perceive  exactly  in  what  the  artifice  consists. 
Quietly  balances  conquests ; rested  balances  three ; 
drums  balances  tramplings.  An  obviously  balanced 
style  — Dr.  Johnson’s  is  notoriously  the  most  so  in  our. 
classical  literature  — has  the  fatal  fault  of  aggressive 
artificiality.  A style  which  neglects  balance  is  often, 
in  effect,  still  worse.  Take  this  sentence,  for  example, 
from  some  newspaper  : “ As  distinctly  as  W.  Renshaw 
is  at  the  head  of  the  men,  so  is  Miss  Maud  Watson 
the  premier  lady  player.”  What  makes  this  so  vile 
is  not  so  much,  I think,  the  barbarous  impropriety  of 
the  last  clause,  as  its  utter  and  needless  dissimilarity 
to  the  first.  In  brief,  I am  accustomed  to  urge  pupils 
to  make  style  as  balanced  as  idiomatic  freedom  wil) 
allow. 


96 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


I have  now  discussed,  as  far  as  time  will  permit,  the 
first  two  phases  of  the  sentence  which  I proposed  at 
the  beginning  of  this  chapter : the  danger  of  offend- 
ing in  composition  against  the  paramount  authority  of 
good  use,  and  some  of  the  different  effects  which  within 
the  limits  of  good  use  may  be  produced  by  sentences 
of  different  kinds.  Our  business  now  is  to  turn  to 
the  principles  of  composition,  and  to  inquire  how  far 
good  use  will  allow  us  to  apply  them  to  the  composi- 
tion of  sentences. 

These  principles  of  composition,  you  will  remember, 
are  three : The  first,  the  principle  of  Unity,  concerns 
the  substance  of  a composition : every  composition 
should  group  itself  about  one  central  idea.  The  sec- 
ond, the  principle  of  Mass,  concerns  the  external  form 
of  a composition : the  chief  parts  of  every  composi- 
tion should  be  so  placed  as  readily  to  catch  the  eye. 
The  third,  the  principle  of  Coherence,  concerns  the 
internal  arrangement  of  a composition  ; the  relation 
of  each  part  of  a composition  to  its  neighbors  should 
be  unmistakable.  The  question  before  us  now  is  how 
far  we  may  apply  these  principles  to  the  composition 
of  sentences. 

To  turn,  then,  to  the  principle  of  Unity,  — that  every 
composition  should  group  itself  about  one  central  idea. 
In  the  first  chapter  I pointed  out  sufficiently  how  very 
elastic  this  principle  is  : as  our  purpose  varies,  the 
same  idea  may  legitimately  be  made  the  central  idea 
of  a sentence  or  a paragraph  or  a chapter  or  a book. 
The  question  of  scale,  in  short,  is  a perfectly  indepen- 


SENTENCES. 


97 


dent  one  ; but  the  question  of  unity  is  a perfectly  dis- 
tinct one.  A style  in  which  each  composition  has  a 
demonstrable  central  idea  is  a style  very  different  in 
effect  from  one  in  which  each  composition  is  hetero- 
geneous, and  for  general  purposes  is  by  no  means  as 
serviceable.  An  example  you  can  all  turn  to  will 
show  what  I mean  : the  paper  in  the  “ Spectator”  which 
tells  of  the  death  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  It  is  too 
long  for  insertion  here ; but  a short  extract  will  per- 
haps serve  our  purpose  : — 

“ I have  likewise  a letter  from  the  butler,  who  took  so 
much  care  of  me  last  summer  when  I was  at  the  knight’s 
house.  As  my  friend  the  butler  mentions,  in  the  simpli- 
city of  his  heart,  several  circumstances  the  others  have 
passed  over  in  silence,  I shall  give  my  reader  a copy  of 
his  letter,  without  any  alteration  or  diminution : — 

“ ‘ Honoured  Sir,  — Knowing  that  you  was  my  old  master’s 
good  friend,  I could  not  forbear  sending  you  the  melancholy  news 
of  his  death,  which  has  afflicted  the  whole  county  as  well  as  his 
poor  servants,  who  loved  him,  I may  say,  better  than  we  did  our 
lives.  I am  afraid  he  caught  his  death  the  last  county-sessions, 
where  he  would  go  to  see  justice  done  to  a poor  widow  woman 
and  her  fatherless  children,  that  had  been  wronged  by  a neighbour- 
ing gentleman ; for  you  know,  Sir,  my  good  master  was  always 
the  poor  man’s  friend.’  ” 

The  contrast  between  the  polite  style  of  the  Spectator 
himself  and  the  vulgar  style  of  the  butler,  proves  on 
analysis  to  be  chiefly  a matter  of  unity  of  sentence. 
And  this  example  emphasizes  one  important  fact : 
neglect  of  the  principle  of  Unity  in  the  composition 

7 


98 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


of  sentences  is  very  apt  to  produce  a subtile  effect  of 
vulgarity.  It  connotes,  in  short,  a confusion  of  mind 
which,  in  educated  people,  nothing  short  of  extreme 
emotion  will  justify. 

The  question  which  naturally  presents  itself  now  is 
whether  there  is  any  test  by  which  unity  of  sentence 
may  be  proved.  At  the  risk  of  seeming  too  dogmatic, 
I have  come  to  the  practice  of  laying  down  a rule  as 
definite  as  this : When  a sentence  may  be  resolved 
into  a single  subject  with  legitimate  modifiers,  and  a 
single  predicate  with  legitimate  modifiers,  it  has 
unity.  Sentences  not  thus  reducible  often  lack  it. 

From  this,  two  or  three  conclusions  follow,  some- 
times laid  down  as  distinct  rules.  Obviously,  a short 
sentence  is  less  apt  to  stray  out  of  unity  than  a long ; 
a periodic  than  a loose.  Short  and  periodic,  then, 
should,  on  the  principle  of  Unity,  commonly  be  pre- 
ferred. Again,  a shift  of  subject  in  a sentence,  or  of 
predicate,  or  an  accumulation  of  either  subjects  or 
predicates,  is  apt  to  lead  to  violation  of  unity  ; and 
violation  of  unity  is  apt  to  mean  a missing  of  the  effect 
which,  as  educated  people,  most  writers  generally 
wish  to  produce. 

A glance  back  at  the  four  examples  of  different 
stages  of  English  style  which  I cited  a little  while 
&go  will  show  an  interesting  fact  about  this  matter  of 
unity.  Three  hundred  years  ago,  and  two  hundred, 
for  that  matter,  few  writers  seem  to  have  paid  much 
attention  to  unity  of  sentence ; like  modern  Ger- 
mans and  Harvard  undergraduates,  Englishmen  of 


SENTENCES. 


99 


the  most  accomplished  kind  put  into  a sentence  pretty 
much  what  they  felt  like  putting  there.  A century 
ago,  we  find  this  changed.  From  a style  that  resem- 
bles the  heterogeneity  of  modern  German,  English 
has  passed  to  a style  that,  more  remotely,  suggests  — 
at  least  in  its  observance  of  the  principle  of  Unity  — 
the  precision  which  makes  so  fascinating  the  style  of 
the  last  two  centuries  in  France.  In  other  words,  if 
we  consider  modern  style  — as  I am  disposed  to  — as 
the  result  of  a constant  conflict  between  good  use  and 
the  principles  of  composition,  we  may  say  that  in 
English  sentences  the  principle  of  Unity  has  carried 
the  day.  So  far  as  good  use  can  be  said  at  all  to 
sanction  a matter  so  remote  from  mere  grammar, 
good  use  may  be  said  at  present  abundantly  to  sanc- 
tion unity  of  sentence  — not  dogmatically,  as  it  gov- 
erns words  and  grammatical  forms,  but  in  the  form 
of  a constantly  strengthening  tendency. 

So  we  come  to  the  principle  of  Mass  : that  the  chief 
parts  of  each  composition  should  be  so  placed  as 
readily  to  catch  the  eye.  In  my  first  chapter  I dwelt 
on  this  matter  more  than  on  that  which  we  have  just 
considered.  I showed  how,  in  writing,  technical  de- 
vices must  do  for  the  eye  what  in  speech  emphasis 
does  for  the  ear ; how  the  physical  fact  that  written 
style  is  addressed  chiefly  to  the  eye  has,  in  my  opinion, 
more  than  a little  to  do  with  the  principles  which  must 
govern  our  written  composition.  I showed,  you  will 
remember,  how  in  any  composition  the  points  which 
most  readily  catch  the  eye  are  evidently  the  beginning 


100 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


and  the  end.  From  which,  of  course,  it  follows  that, 
broadly  speaking,  every  composition  — sentence,  para- 
graph, chapter,  book  — may  conveniently  begin  and 
end  with  words  which  stand  for  ideas  that  we  wish  to 
impress  on  our  readers.  And  very  lately  I have  called 
your  attention  to  another  fact  which  we  should  remem- 
ber here : broadly  speaking,  the  office  of  punctuation 
is  to  emphasize,  — to  do  for  the  eye  what  vocal  pauses 
and  stress  do  for  the  ear,  — to  show  what  parts  of  a 
composition  belong  together,  and  among  those  parts  to 
indicate  the  most  significant.  It  is  clear  that  periods 
emphasize  more  strongly  than  semi-colons ; and  semi- 
colons than  commas.  From  this,  of  course,  it  follows 
that  in  an  ideally  massed  sentence  the  most  signifi- 
cant words  come  close  to  the  periods,  the  less  signifi- 
cant close  to  the  lesser  marks  of  punctuation,  the 
least  significant  in  those  unbroken  stretches  of  dis- 
course where  there  are  nothing  but  words  to  arrest 
the  eye.  The  test  of  a well-massed  sentence,  then,  is 
very  simple : Are  the  words  that  arrest  the  eye  the 
words  on  which  the  writer  would  arrest  our  attention  ? 

With  these  principles  in  mind,  let  us  glance  at  the 
four  examples  of  English  style  to  which  I have  already 
called  your  attention. 

The  passage  from  Ralegh,  whatever  its  faults,  is 
ideally  massed.  The  words  that  catch  the  eye  are  in 
every  case  the  chief  ones ; and  at  the  same  time  the 
careful  balance  and  antithesis  of  each  separate  clause 
indicate  with  great  precision  the  comparative  value 
of  the  ideas  expressed. 


SENTENCES. 


101 


The  passage  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne  is  by  no 
means  so  well  massed : as  a consequence,  we  find  that 
we  cannot  read  it  by  any  means  as  fast.  Before  we 
can  tell  which  words  are  significant  we  must  in  imagi- 
nation read  the  whole  sentence  aloud,  and  decide  on 
what  words  to  throw  vocal  stress.  But  in  this  decision 
we  are  greatly  aided  by  the  careful  balance  and  an- 
tithesis that  pervades  the  sentence. 

In  the  passage  from  Fielding  the  artificiality  of 
style  is  far  less  palpable  than  in  the  others ; but  the 
mass,  though  perhaps  less  satisfactory  than  Ralegh’s, 
is  distinctly  better  than  Sir  Thomas  Browne’s. 

In  the  passage  from  Macaulay,  the  massing,  though 
not  so  good  as  Ralegh’s,  is  better  than  Browne’s  or 
Fielding’s.  And  here,  again,  balance  and  antithesis 
come  to  the  aid  of  punctuation. 

In  a general  way,  I think,  these  examples  indicate 
two  facts  which  I believe  true.  In  the  first  place,  it  is 
very  hard  to  mass  a sentence  well  without  making  the 
artifice  very  palpable.  To  put  a word  in  a conspicuous 
place,  unless  it  chance  to  put  itself  there,  is  deliber- 
ately to  alter  the  natural  order  of  our  words  ; and  to 
alter  the  natural  order  of  our  words  in  an  uninflected 
language  is  to  strain,  and  often  to  violate,  the  author- 
ity of  good  use.  From  this  would  naturally  follow 
the  second  fact  I have  in  mind  : that  in  the  historical 
development  of  English  style  the  conflict  between 
good  use  and  the  principle  of  Mass  has  followed  a 
course  very  different  from  that  of  the  conflict  of  good 
use  with  the  principle  of  Unity.  In  the  case  of  the 


102 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


principle  of  Unity  there  was  in  the  nature  of  things 
no  reason  why  the  principle  should  not  more  and 
more  prevail.  In  the  case  of  the  principle  of  Mass, 
which  conflicts  directly  with  the  naturally  inflexible 
order  of  words  in  an  uninflected  language,  every  effort 
to  apply  the  principle  involves  an  artificial  distortion 
of  style.  The  result  is  just  what  we  should  expect. 
The  conflict  of  principle  and  use  is  still  at  its  height, 
and  here  is  where  modern  students  of  style  must 
exercise  the  greatest  care  not  to  stray  farther  than 
need  be  from  principle. 

An  example  from  my  own  experience  may  serve 
to  make  this  matter  clearer. 

It  occurred  while  I was  last  discussing  this  very 
matter  at  Harvard  College.  I had  come  to  this  point, 
when  I proposed  a question  that  I have  not  yet 
mentioned.  Granting,  as  we  have  seen,  that  the 
most  conspicuous  points  in  a sentence  — or  in  any 
composition  — are  the  beginning  and  the  end,  is  either 
of  these  more  important  than  the  other?  It  is  a 
natural  fact  that  to  most  people  — other  things  being 
equal  — what  is  freshest  in  mind  is  most  conspicuous. 
Perhaps  chiefly  for  this  reason,  I asserted  the  end  of 
a composition  to  be  on  the  whole  a more  emphatic 
place  than  the  beginning.  And  here,  I pointed  out, 
is  the  secret  of  anti-climax  : intentionally  or  uninten- 
tionally as  the  case  may  be  — with  fatal  loss  of  effect 
or  with  great  ironical  power  — it  emphasizes  what,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  should  not  be  emphatic.  And  to 
close  the  whole  subject,  I wrote  this  sentence : “ Be 


SENTENCES. 


103 


sure  that  your  sentences  end  with  words  that  deserve 
the  distinction  you  give  them.”  Revising  the  pas- 
sage, I was  impressed  by  the  fact  that  this  sentence 
was  perhaps  as  complete  a violation  as  I could  devise 
of  the  very  principle  it  laid  down.  “ Give  them  ” were 
the  most  emphatic  words ; the  next  most  emphatic  — 
the  opening  ones  — were,  “Be  sure.”  Evidently  that 
would  not  do.  Applying  the  principle  of  Mass  delib- 
erately, I inquired  what  the  chief  words  really  were. 
Obviously,  I saw,  they  were  end  and  distinction.  Strik- 
ing out  needless  words,  placing  needful  ones  where, 
according  to  principle,  they  belonged,  I found  my 
sentence  in  a form  in  all  respects  superior  to  the  first, 
— shorter,  more  compact,  quite  as  freely  idiomatic  and 
perfectly  massed.  In  that  form  it  stands  now,  a 
counsel  which  I trust  you  will  not  find  useless  : “ End 
with  words  that  deserve  distinction.” 

So  we  come  to  the  principle  of  Coherence  : that  the 
relation  of  each  part  of  a composition  to  its  neighbors 
should  be  unmistakable.  Applying  this  to  sentences, 
it  obviously  means  that  the  relation  of  each  word  and 
each  clause  to  the  context  should  be  unmistakable. 
In  a very  general  form,  this  statement  covers  by  far 
the  greater  part  of  the  rules  which  fill  conventional 
textbooks  of  rhetoric.  In  a very  general  form,  but  I 
think  an  adequately  suggestive  one,  it  answers  by  far 
the  greater  part  of  the  questions  concerning  composi- 
tion which  novices  in  the  art  address  to  teachers. 
As  I have  said,  such  questions  almost  always  concern 
matters  of  detail ; and  in  its  very  essence,  the  princi- 


104  ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 

pie  of  Coherence  is  that  which  applies  chiefly  to  mat- 
ters of  detail.  To  distinguish  it  from  the  principle  of 
Mass*  indeed,  detail  might  have  been  a better  name 
for  it. 

For  this  very  reason,  the  principle  of  Coherence  is 
far  more  difficult  to  discuss  in  a few  minutes  than 
either  of  the  others.  Examples  of  the  observance  and 
the  violation  of  it  take  so  many  and  such  varied  forms 
that  at  first  sight  the  whole  matter  seems  almost  hope- 
less. I believe,  however,  that  coherence  of  sentence 
is  dependent  on  one  of  three  pretty  simple  general 
devices ; that  all  the  rules  I have  found  to  guide  us 
toward  it  will  fall  under  one  of  three  broadly  general 
ones.  By  stating  these  and  briefly  discussing  each  in 
turn,  I can  certainly  treat  the  subject  with  more  deci- 
sion than  otherwise. 

The  general  principle,  we  may  remember,  is  this : 
in  a sentence  the  relation  of  each  word  and  each 
clause  to  the  context  should  be  unmistakable.  Now, 
the  mutual  relations  of  words  and  clauses,  indicated 
primarily  in  our  uninflected  language  by  order  of 
words,  may  be  made  evident  in  three  ways : by  the 
actual  order  of  words  in  detail,  by  the  grammatical 
forms  into  which  we  throw  our  clauses,  and  by  the 
use  of  connectives.  Three  subordinate  rules  or  prin- 
ciples have  therefore  phrased  themselves  in  my  mind  : 
The  first,  which  concerns  coherence  in  the  order  of 
words,  is  this,  — words  closely  related  in  thought 
should  be  placed  together,  words  distinct  in  thought 
kept  apart.  The  second,  which  concerns  coherence 


SENTENCES. 


105 


in  constructions,  is  this, — phrases  that  are  similar  in 
significance  should  be  similar  in  form.  The  third, 
which  concerns  coherence  in  the  use  of  connectives, 
is  this,  — when  the  order  of  words  and  the  form  of 
constructions  prove  insufficient  to  define  the  relation 
of  a word  or  a clause  to  the  context,  connectives 
should  denote  that  relation  with  precision.  These 
three  subordinate  rules  of  coherence  I propose  to  dis- 
cuss in  turn.  They  may  be  discussed  most  conven- 
iently by  means  of  broadly  typical  examples. 

The  example  which  first  occurs  to  me  of  coherence 
in  the  order  of  words  is  one  from  my  own  experience. 
Writing  a lecture  on  a part  of  our  subject,  — para- 
graphs,— which  will  be  before  us  later,  I put  down  the 
following  sentence : “ A glance  at  any  printed  page 
will  show  that  the  points  in  paragraphs  which  most 
readily  catch  the  eye  are  — even  more  notably  than  in 
sentences  — the  beginning  and  the  end.”  On  revision 
I found  this  sentence  unsatisfactory.  It  had  unity ; 
it  was  tolerably  massed ; so  far  as  the  principles  of 
composition  went,  then,  the  trouble  must  fall  under 
the  head  of  coherence.  Under  this  head  my  first 
question  was  whether  the  trouble  lay  in  the  actual 
order  of  the  words.  So  far  as  good  use  permits,  I 
reminded  myself,  words  connected  in  thought  should 
be  kept  together,  words  distinct  in  thought  kept 
apart.  In  this  troublesome  sentence  what  words  be- 
longed together  in  thought,  which  were  not  together 
in  fact  ? At  a glance  I saw  that  “ in  paragraphs  ” 
kept  apart  two  words  — “ points  ” and  “ which  ” — 


106 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


that  in  thought  belonged  together ; at  another  glance 
I saw  that  the  clause,  “ even  more  notably  than  in 
sentences,”  not  only  separated  words — “are”  and 
“ the  beginning”  — that  in  thought  belonged  together, 
but  that  in  thought  this  clause  belonged  with  the 
other  words,  — “in  paragraphs,”  — which  had  like- 
wise proved  out  of  place.  “ In  paragraphs  even  more 
notably  than  in  sentences,”  then,  formulated  itself  as 
a distinct  clause  which  demanded  insertion  in  a sen- 
tence that  without  it  ran  thus : “ A glance  at  any 
printed  page  will  show  that  the  points  which  most 
readily  catch  the  eye  are  the  beginning  and  the  end.” 
Where  did  the  qualifying  clause,  without  which  the 
meaning  was  obviously  incomplete,  belong  ? Obvi- 
ously between  the  main  verb  — “ show  ” — and  its 
object ; for  in  some  degree  it  qualified  both  verb  and 
object.  So  the  sentence  fell  into  this  far  more  cohe- 
rent form : “A  glance  at  any  printed  page  will  show 
that  in  paragraphs,  even  more  notably  than  in  sen- 
tences, the  points  which  most  readily  catch  the  eye 
are  the  beginning  and  the  end.” 

In  this  single  example,  then,  we  may  see  how  to 
apply  a general  principle  of  coherence  commonly 
stated  in  a number  of  apparently  independent  rules : 
Qualifying  words  should  be  close  to  words  they  qual- 
ify and  carefully  separated  from  words  they  might 
qualify,  but  do  not ; Parenthesis  is  undesirable ; and 
so  on.  Words  closely  related  in  thought  should  be 
kept  together,  words  distinct  in  thought  kept  apart,  — 
that  sums  up  the  whole  story. 


SENTENCES. 


107 


To  turn  to  coherence  in  constructions,  I think  of  no 
better  example  of  it  than  the  passage  from  Ralegh 
already  before  us.  What  preserves  its  looseness  from 
incoherence  is  simply  and  solely  the  admirable  uni- 
formity of  its  constructions.  First  comes  the  apostro- 
phe ; then  three  perfectly  independent  clauses  all 
constructed  exactly  alike,  each  admirably  balanced 
and  notably  antithetical : this  identity  of  construction 
instantly  groups  them  — where  they  belong  — together 
in  the  mind  of  any  reader.  Finally  comes  the  long 
clause  explanatory  of  the  three  preceding : slightly  dif- 
ferent in  significance,  it  demands  a slight  alteration  of 
construction,  that  it  may  stand  sufficiently  apart ; but 
not  varying  from  the  others  in  mood  or  in  general 
character,  it  preserves,  like  them,  careful  balance  and 
antithesis.  This  example,  of  course,  is  old-fashioned ; 
it  applies  the  principle  in  a form  rather  exagger- 
ated for  modern  style.  But  it  shows  more  distinctly 
than  less  exaggerated  examples  the  value,  in  cohe- 
rence, of  balance  and  antithesis,  and  of  parallel  con- 
structions. A very  modern  example  of  incoherence 
— a sentence  from  a college  theme  — may  serve  to 
show,  in  very  few  words,  how  the  principle  that 
Ralegh  so  carefully  observed  is  nowadays  commonly 
violated.  An  undergraduate  dabbler  in  fiction  was 
engaged  in  telling  a story  where  he  assumed  the  char- 
acter of  a young  and  beautiful  woman  assaulted  by  a 
spider  : “ I started  up,”  he  wrote,  “ and  a scream  was 
heard.”  Now,  in  the  context  there  was  no  consider- 
able company  within  hearing,  to  be  startled  by  the 


108 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


scream  ; and  except  for  the  purpose  of  calling  atten- 
tion to  the  hearers  of  the  scream  there  could  have 
been  no,  possible  reason  for  changing  the  construction 
to  the  passive  voice,  and  for  shifting  the  subject. 
What  he  meant  was  not  what  he  wrote : it  was  one  of 
two  other  things,  — “I  started  up  and  screamed,”  or 
u I started  up  with  a scream.”  In  short,  he  managed, 
in  eight  words,  to  commit  the  two  most  common  and 
needless  offences  against  coherence  in  constructions. 
He  shifted  his  subject,  and  altered  the  voice  of  his  verb 
from  active  to  passive. 

In  considering  how  to  improve  this  incoherent  little 
sentence,  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  the  third 
subordinate  principle  of  coherence.  When  the  order 
of  words  and  the  form  of  constructions  prove  insuffi- 
cient to  define  the  relation  of  a word  or  a clause  to 
the  context,  connectives  should  denote  that  relation 
with  precision.  At  first,  I dare  say,  you  were  sur- 
prised to  have  me  say  that  he  meant  one  of  two  dif- 
ferent things : either,  “ I started  up  and  screamed,” 
or,  “ I started  up  with  a scream.”  Off-hand  there 
appears  here  little  if  any  difference  in  meaning ; but 
really  there  is  a difference  which  I believe  to  be  very 
profound.  In  the  first  sentence  — “ I started  up  and 
screamed  ” — the  two  actions,  starting  and  screaming, 
are  co-ordinate : the  function  of  and  is  to  assert  that 
the  facts  or  the  words  it  connects  are  of  precisely 
equal  value.  Take  the  name  of  a firm,  for  example, 
Brown  and  Jones:  the  and  signifies  that  Brown’s 
signature  or  Jones’s  is  equally  binding  on  both  parties. 


SENTENCES. 


109 


Now,  did  the  writer  of  our  incoherent  sentence  mean 
that  the  start  and  the  scream  were  co-ordinate,  — were 
independent  actions,  for  the  purpose  in  hand  of  ex- 
actly equal  value  ? Or  did  he  mean  that,  as  a matter 
of  fact,  one  of  these  actions  was  a part  of  the  other, 
was  s^5ordinate  ? If  so,  he  should  have  employed  a 
subordinating  connective,  — such  as  with.  “ I started 
up  and  screamed,”  means  that  there  were  two  inde- 
pendent actions,  one  as  significant  as  the  other ; “ I 
started  up  with  a scream,”  means  that  the  two  actions 
really  formed  one,  — the  former  addressing  itself  to 
the  eye,  and  in  case  of  physical  contact  to  the  sense  of 
touch  as  well ; the  latter,  a slightly  secondary  one, 
addressing  itself  solely  to  the  ear.  This  nicety  of 
distinction,  in  so  simple  a case  apparently  unimpor- 
tant, is  among  the  most  subtile  secrets  of  effective 
style  ; no  confusion  of  thought  is  commoner  than  that 
which  confuses  subordinate  matters  and  co-ordinate. 
Nor  is  there  any  more  direct  path  to  precision  of 
thought  than  that  which  leaves  subordinate  matter 
on  one  side  and  co-ordinate  on  the  other. 

To  appreciate  the  full  value  of  skilfully  used  connec- 
tives, we  cannot  do  better  than  glance  back  at  the  pas- 
sage from  Sir  Thomas  Browne  already  before  us.  Its 
notable  coherence,  which  in  total  effect  quite  atones 
for  the  weakness  of  its  massing,  is  due  wholly  to  the 
connectives.  The  second  word  — since  — subordinates 
the  opening  clauses ; the  five  ands  are  strictly  co- 
ordinate in  meaning ; the  such  binds  the  main  clause 
firmly  to  the  subordinate  ones  that  precede ; and  the 


110 


EN&LISH  COMPOSITION. 


or,  slightly  loosening  the  alternative  clause  with  which 
the  sentence  ends,  goes  far  to  relieve  the  impression 
of  tension  sure  to  be  produced  by  too  sustained  a 
period.  Of  these  connectives  the  most  subtile  is  such , 
whose  connective  meaning  does  not  instantly  appear. 
It  is  the  most  subtile  because  it  is  placed,  not  at 
the  beginning  of  the  clause  which  it  binds  to  the 
preceding,  but  in  the  body  of  it.  To  use  a figure  of 
speech,  it  dove-tails  style  instead  of  merely  gluing 
it;  and  this  dove-tailing  of  style  is  a thing  worth 
attending  to.  In  producing  a firmly  coherent  effect, 
connectives  in  the  body  of  a clause  or  sentence  are  sur- 
prisingly more  efficient  than  initial  connectives.  Also 
and  too , for  example,  are  decidedly  firmer  than  and; 
so,  in  that  preceding  clause,  the  connective  for  exam- 
ple more  firmly  knits  this  sentence  to  the  preceding 
than  this  clause,  with  an  initial  so,  is  knit  to  the 
clause  before  it.  And  so  I have  touched  on  the  two 
chief  guides  to  precision  in  the  use  of  connectives : 
distinguish  between  subordinate  and  co-ordinate  mat- 
ter ; and  prefer  connectives  in  the  body  of  a clause  to 
initial  ones. 

So  much  for  the  principle  of  Coherence  in  detail.  The 
test  of  coherence  appears  in  my  very  statement  of  the 
principle : Is  there  any  chance  of  mistaking  the  rela- 
tion of  a word  to  its  neighbors  ? So  far  as  this 
chance  exists,  — and  it  cannot  always  be  avoided,  — 
a sentence  is  incoherent. 

The  historical  growth  of  coherence  in  English  style 
is  too  large  a subject  to  discuss  here.  I shall  venture, 


SENTENCES. 


Ill 


then,  in  very  few  words,  to  state  what  I now  think 
about  it.  In  brief,  I think  — and  perhaps  a study  of 
my  four  typical  examples  will  bear  me  out  — that 
coherence  in  the  order  of  words  has  tended  on  the 
whole  to  strengthen ; that  coherence  in  construction 
is  far  more  rare  than  it  used  to  be  ; and  that  cohe- 
rence in  the  use  of  connectives  has  on  the  whole 
tended  to  grow  firmer  and  more  subtile  as  thought 
has  gained  in  freedom  and  precision.  In  the  conflict 
between  good  use  and  the  principle  of  Coherence,  then, 
we  find  the  principle  farther  advanced  than  the  prin- 
ciple of  Mass,  but  by  no  means  as  far  as  the  principle 
of  Unity.  And  the  point  where  it  is  now  weakest  is 
constructions  ; few  writers  nowadays  practically  re- 
member that  phrases  similar  in  thought  may  to  ad- 
vantage be  similar  in  form. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  last  chapter  I called  your 
attention  to  a matter  to  which  we  must  now  revert. 
Having  considered  the  dangers  of  offence  against 
good  use  in  our  choice  of  words,  you  will  remember, 
and  having  pointed  out  what  notable  differences  of 
effect  we  might  secure  within  the  limits  of  good  use 
by  judiciously  varying  our  choice  of  words,  I pro- 
ceeded to  inquire  how  a careful  writer  should  proceed 
in  his  search  for  the  kinds  of  words  that  should  pro- 
duce the  effects  he  has  in  mind.  In  our  discussion 
of  sentences  we  have  now  reached  this  same  point : 
we  have  discussed  the  dangers  of  offence  against 
good  use  in  composition ; we  have  seen  how  within  the 
limits  of  good  use  different  kinds  of  sentences  can 


112 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


produce  very  varied  effects ; and  we  have  seen  how 
judicious  application  of  the  principles  of  composition 
to  sentences  of  any  kind  — long  or  short,  periodic  or 
loose,  balanced  or  unbalanced  — may  help  us  to  vary 
and  to  define  the  effects  we  have  in  mind.  It  is  our 
business  now  to  inquire  concerning  sentences,  just  as 
we  inquired  concerning  words,  in  what  these  effects 
consist. 

There  is  no  need  of  repeating  in  detail  what  I said 
then.  I pointed  out,  you  will  remember,  the  inevi- 
table discrepancy  between  the  limited  number  of 
words  in  our  possession  and  the  virtually  infinite 
number  of  thoughts  in  the  mind  of  every  living  man ; 
and  I showed  how  in  fact  every  word  we  use  or  hear 
not  only  names  an  idea,  but  suggests  along  with  it  a 
considerable  number  of  others : the  idea  it  names  it 
denotes ; the  ideas  it  suggests  it  connotes. 

What  we  then  found  true  of  words  by  themselves 
must  obviously  be  true,  in  a vastly  greater  and  more 
complicated  degree,  of  words  in  composition.  Com- 
position combines  every  phase  of  the  words  it  brings 
together ; in  the  organism  of  the  sentence  denotation 
and  connotation  fuse.  Take  the  simplest  of  examples, 
— two  words:  I speak.  As  I utter  these  words  in 
combination,  the  pronoun  calls  up  certain  individuali- 
ties of  face  and  form  and  manner  and  dress,  and 
what  not.  If  any  one  else  should  utter  the  same 
words,  the  whole  connotation  would  alter.  The 
changed  denotation  of  the  pronoun,  of  course,  would 
be  the  chief  feature  of  the  alteration ; but  this  change 


SENTENCES. 


113 


would  be  more  than  enough  completely  to  alter  the 
connotation  of  the  verb.  Or  take  a somewhat  longer 
example,  but  just  as  simple,  where  there  is  no  change 
in  denotation  at  all.  Some  years  ago  a gentleman 
died  hereabouts,  whose  literary  style  was  much  ad- 
mired by  the  friend  who  wrote  an  obituary  notice 
of  him : “ His  English,”  ran  the  sentence,  which  I 
have  remembered  for  years,  “ was  purified  by  con- 
stant study  of  the  best  models : the  English  Bible, 
Shakspere,  Addison,  and  Fisher  Ames.”  I confess 
that  this  sentence,  which  has  often  made  me  laugh, 
is  what  has  chiefly  kept  alive  in  my  mind  the  memory 
of  our  deceased  fellow-citizen.  But  if  his  admirer 
had  turned  the  phrase  the  other  way,  without  altering 
his  denotation  a bit,  he  would  have  secured  a conno- 
tation if  not  more  favorable  to  the  immortality  of  his 
subject,  at  least  more  consonant  with  its  dignity : 
“ His  English  was  purified  by  constant  study  of  the 
best  models : Fisher  Ames,  Addison,  Shakspere,  and 
the  English  Bible.”  Of  compositions,  then,  we  may 
say  just  what  we  said  of  words : in  the  first  place, 
they  so  name  ideas  that  we  may  identify  them ; in  the 
second  place,  they  inevitably  suggest  at  the  same  time 
a very  subtile  and  complicated  set  of  associated  ideas 
and  emotions.  In  short,  compositions,  like  words, 
inevitably  possess  both  denotation  and  connotation; 
and  whoever  would  intelligently  compose  sentences 
must  know,  in  deciding  what  effect  he  would  pro- 
duce, both  what  he  would  denote  and  what  he  would 
connote. 


8 


IY. 


PARAGRAPHS. 

In  discussing  both  words  and  sentences,  I have  re- 
minded you  more  than  once  that  both  of  these  ele- 
ments of  style  are  inevitable  in  all  discourse,  written 
or  spoken.  To  exist  at  all,  a language  must  have  not 
only  words,  but  settled  forms  in  which  those  words 
compose  intelligible  sentences.  The  good  use  which 
ultimately  governs  both  words  and  sentences  is  a fact 
which  has  arisen  from  the  generally  spontaneous  con- 
sent, first  of  talkers,  and  then  of  writers.  In  its  broader 
form  it  is  a fact  to  which  in  every  word  he  speaks,  in 
every  thought  he  articulately  formulates,  every  man 
of  us  must  constantly  conform.  In  writing  words 
and  sentences,  then,  we  simply  put  on  paper  things 
that  we  are  incessantly  making.  We  record  our  habits 
of  thought.  Now,  there  is  no  fact  in  human  experi- 
ence much  more  settled  than  this  : to  do  anything 
thoroughly  well  we  must  not  stop  in  the  act  to  con- 
sider how  we  are  doing  it.  Action  of  any  kind  may 
be  carefully  planned  ; things  once  done  may  be  rigor- 
ously scrutinized  and  criticised.  But  the  time  to  plan 
is  before  work  begins ; the  time  to  criticise  is  after 
work  is  done.  To  pause  in  the  course  of  work,  won- 


PARAGRAPHS. 


115 


dering  whether  we  are  on  the  right  course,  is  almost 
certainly  to  blunder.  This  is  nowhere  truer  than  in 
composition.  The  task  of  the  writer,  as  I can  hardly 
repeat  too  often,  is  a very  wonderful  one.  It  is  noth- 
ing less  than  an  act  of  creative  imagination,  than  the 
giving  of  a visible  material  body  to  an  eternally  im- 
material reality,  which  until  embodied  must  remain 
unknown  to  all  but  the  one  human  being  who  knows 
it.  In  the  act  of  creation  there  is  but  one  possible 
course  : it  is  to  concentrate  attention  as  closely  as  we 
possibly  can  on  the  reality  which  we  would  make  real 
to  others  than  ourselves.  Only  thus,  I believe,  can 
the  words  we  create  possess  even  a shadow  of  the 
vitality  which  makes  the  thought  they  symbolize  a 
thing  so  inexpressibly  real. 

And  yet,  if  the  work  of  the  writer  ended  here, 
there  were  no  use  in  all  this  pother  about  the  elements 
of  style.  It  is  true,  I believe,  that  our  best  work 
of  any  kind  is  done  in  those  moments  of  splendid 
adjustment  when  the  forces  without  ourselves  for  a 
little  while  relax  their  crushing  hostility  ; but  such 
moments  of  inspiration  are  not  common.  The  most 
we  can  generally  do  is  to  mimic  them  as  best  we  may, 
seeking  in  ourselves  the  motive  force  that  is  denied 
us  from  without ; and  even  though  our  mimicry 
sometimes  come  so  near  the  truth  that  for  the  while 
we  forget  ourselves,  we  can  never  be  sure  that  the 
work  we  have  done  is  the  work  that  we  meant  to  do. 
We  must  plan  it,  then,  as  carefully  as  we  can;  and 
once  done,  we  must  scrutinize  it  with  all  our  care. 


116 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


In  this  planning  and  this  scrutiny  we  need  principles 
to  guide  us ; these  principles  are  what  I am  trying  to 
set  and  to  keep  before  you. 

To  put  these  high-sounding  generalities  in  concrete 
terms,  the  experience  of  pretty  much  every  writer  is 
something  like  this  : An  idea  presents  itself  to  him  in 
a general  form ; he  is  impressed  with  some  fact  in 
experience,  perhaps,  which  nothing  but  the  most  ex- 
quisite verse  can  adequately  formulate  ; or  perhaps 
he  receives  an  invitation  to  dinner  which  he  wants  to 
accept.  His  first  task  — and  often  his  longest  — is 
to  plan  his  work : he  decides  how  to  begin,  what 
course  to  follow,  where  to  end.  His  next  task  is  to 
fill  out  his  plan ; in  other  words,  to  compose,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  general  outline  in  his  mind,  a series 
of  words  and  sentences  which  shall  so  symbolize  this 
outline  that  other  minds  than  his  can  perceive  it. 
His  final  task  is  to  revise  the  work  he  has  executed, 
and  to  see  whether  he  has  succeeded  in  producing 
the  effects  — denotative  and  connotative  — which  he 
had  in  view. 

It  is  in  this  revision  that  the  principles  we  have 
hitherto  discussed  become  valuable.  In  actual  writing, 
just  as  in  actual  thinking  and  talking,  no  sane  man 
stops  to  consider  words  or  syntax.  But  in  revision 
of  writing  few  men  are  fortunate  enough  to  find  them- 
selves so  completely  made  in  the  divine  image  as 
unhesitatingly  to  pronounce  their  work  good.  If  it 
is  not  good,  it  fails  of  excellence  because  in  one  way 
or  another  the  writer  has  neglected  the  principles  of 


PARAGRAPHS. 


117 


his  art.  And  nothing  can  so  surely  help  him  to 
remedy  the  trouble  as  a deliberate  knowledge  of  just 
what  those  principles  are. 

Now,  as  I have  said  already,  the  principles  which 
govern  the  composition  of  sentences  are  the  same 
which  govern  the  composition  of  paragraphs  and 
chapters  and  books ; but  in  composing  the  larger 
elements  of  style,  we  use  these  principles  in  a distinctly 
different  way.  Except  in  rare  cases,  we  do  not  de- 
liberately plan  our  sentences ; we  write  them,  and 
then  revise  them.  Except  in  rare  cases  we  do  delib- 
erately plan  our  paragraphs,  our  chapters,  our  books ; 
and  if  we  plan  them  properly,  we  do  not  need  to  revise 
them  much,  if  at  all.  Words  and  sentences  are 
subjects  of  revision ; paragraphs  and  whole  composi- 
tions are  subjects  of  prevision. 

That  this  distinction  is  not  fanciful  must  be  shown, 
I believe,  by  the  experience  of  any  teacher  of  composi- 
tion. Dogmatize,  lecture  as  he  will  about  how  things 
ought  to  be  done,  he  finds  his  task,  when  he  comes  to 
criticise  the  work  of  his  pupils,  resolving  itself  into 
a form  unpleasantly  free  from  exhilaration.  The 
greater  part  of  his  work  consists  in  pointing  out  how 
in  the  choice  of  words  and  the  composition  of  sen- 
tences his  pupils  have  failed  to  produce  the  effects 
they  had  in  mind.  In  other  words,  so  far  as  teaching 
concerns  words  and  sentences,  it  must  confine  itself 
chiefly  to  the  correction  of  rooted  and  vicious  habits, 
constantly  strengthened  by  the  inevitable  carelessness 
of  daily  speech.  But  when  we  come  to  paragraphs 


118 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


and  whole  compositions,  the  experience  of  the  teacher 
undergoes  a refreshing  change.  In  every-day  life 
pupils  do  not  make  paragraphs  or  wholes  at  all. 
There  are  no  vicious  habits,  then,  for  teachers  to 
unmake.  A single  lecture  on  principles  will  prove 
more  fruitful  than  a course  of  instruction  in  the 
earlier  stages  of  the  art ; and  wdiat  is  more,  if  the 
teacher  keep  in  his  own  mind  and  his  pupils’  the  truth 
that  the  principles  which  so  plainly  bring  paragraphs 
and  order  out  of  chaos  are  the  very  same  which,  ap- 
plied habitually  and  under  different  conditions,  make 
the  difference  between  good  sentences  and  bad,  a 
very  long  step  will  have  been  taken  on  the  road 
somewhere. 

Firmly  remembering,  then,  that  what  we  have  con- 
sidered hitherto  is  of  use  to  us  chiefly  in  revision,  and 
that  what  we  are  to  consider  now  is  of  use  chiefly  in 
prevision,  let  us  turn  our  attention  to  paragraphs. 

First  of  all,  we  may  best  ask  ourselves  what  a para- 
graph is.  We  all  know  paragraphs  by  sight.  They 
are  those  large  masses  of  written  or  printed  words  that 
appear  on  almost  any  properly  composed  page,  distin- 
guishing themselves  from  the  context  by  a marked 
indentation  of  the  first  line.  But  obviously  this  is 
not  a definition.  And  no  fact  is  more  indicative  of 
the  general  neglect  of  the  subject  of  paragraphs 
than  that  no  textbook  of  rhetoric  I have  come  across 
contains  any  satisfactory  definition  of  them.  A para- 
graph, says  one,  is  “ a collection,  or  series,  of  sentences, 
with  unity  of  purpose.”  A paragraph,  says  another, 


PARAGRAPHS. 


119 


is  “ a connected  series  of  sentences  constituting  the 
development  of  a single  topic.”  A paragraph,  says 
a third,  is  “ a whole  composition  in  miniature.”  And 
so  on.  In  these  straits,  trying  to  make  a definition 
for  myself,  I have  been  able  to  frame  no  better  one 
than  this,  whose  comparative  form  makes  it  at  least 
suggestive : A paragraph  is  to  a sentence  what  a 
sentence  is  to  a word. 

While  this,  of  course,  is  nothing  but  another  way 
of  saying  what  I have  said  already,  — that  the  prim 
ciples  which  apply  to  the  composition  of  paragraphs 
are  the  same  that  apply  to  the  composition  of  sen- 
tences, — it  states  the  fact  in  a more  compact  form ; 
and  it  fixes  more  firmly  in  one’s  mind  the  fact 
which  most  writers  never  keep  in  mind  at  all,  — that 
paragraphs  ought  to  be  as  definitely  organized  as 
sentences  themselves. 

This  fact,  I have  just  said,  few  writers  keep  in  mind. 
Recalling  for  an  instant  what  everybody  knows,  — that 
paragraphs,  like  punctuation,  exist  only  in  written  dis- 
course, and  are  not  recognizable  in  spoken,  — we  can 
see  that  this  statement  amounts  to  saying  that  in  the 
composition  of  paragraphs  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
good  use.  Some  good  writers  are.  pretty  careful  about 
paragraphs ; hut  quite  as  many  seem  to  regard  para- 
graphs as  purely  ornamental  devices,  serving  in  liter- 
ature some  such  purpose  as  that  filled  by  illuminated 
initials.  A page  or  two  of  unbroken  text  is  ugly ; 
let  us  break  it  somewhere.  Without  exaggeration  a 
very  large  number  of  the  paragraphs  I have  exam- 


120 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


ined  appear  to  be  made  on  no  more  vital  principle 
than  this.  The  first  line  of  every  paragraph,  to  be 
sure,  is  sharply  indented  ; and  in  paragraphs,  as  in 
sentences,  monotony  of  construction  is  palpably  arti- 
ficial, and  palpable  artificiality  is  never  idiomatically 
free.  Now,  what  is  not  apparently  idiomatic  may  be 
said  to  offend  against  good  use.  Very  generally,  then, 
I may  say  that  good  use  appears  not  to  sanction  rigid 
monotony  of  paragraph.  Further  than  that,  nothing. 

To  a serious  student  of  the  art  of  composition  this 
state  of  things  is  very  refreshing.  It  means  that  we 
have  reached  a point  where  we  are  emancipated  from 
the  troublesome  control  of  external  fashion,  where  we 
are  free  to  guide  ourselves  by  intelligence.  We  are 
past  the  gambit ; the  game  is  open.  The  only  ques- 
tion is  how  we  may  most  effectively  exercise  our  good 
sense. 

Our  good  sense,  I say.  For  if  my  definition  of  a 
paragraph  be  true,  if  a paragraph  really  be  to  a sen- 
tence what  a sentence  is  to  a word,  then  pretty  much 
every  principle  which,  constantly  hampered  by  good 
use,  we  tried  to  apply  to  sentences,  we  can  now  ap- 
ply untrammelled ; and  almost  the  first  thing  we 
found  true  of  sentences  was  that,  happily  for  us, 
English  grammar  is  little  else  than  a clumsy  codifica- 
tion of  British  good  sense.  A sentence  which  on 
analysis  proves  sensible  is  generally  good  English. 
By  the  same  token,  a paragraph  sensibly  composed 
is  beyond  cavil  a good  paragraph. 

The  next  thing  for  us  to  inquire  is  whether  there 


PARAGRAPHS. 


121 


are  any  distinct  kinds  of  paragraphs,  by  means  of 
which  distinctly  different  effects  may  be  produced. 
The  only  kinds  of  paragraphs  which  seem  practically 
important  are  the  long  and  the  short.  What  a long 
paragraph  is,  or  a short,  it  is  not  very  easy  to  say ; 
but  perhaps  it  is  easier  than  to  answer  a similar  ques- 
tion about  sentences.  In  an  ordinary  page  of  print  — 
in  a page  of  this  book,  for  example,  — there  are  be- 
tween two  and  three  hundred  words.  Taking  this  as 
a standard  of  measurement,  I may  roughly  say  that  a 
paragraph  of  less  than  one  hundred  words  — of  a third 
of  a page  or  less  — is  distinctly  short;  and  that  a 
paragraph  of  more  than  three  hundred  words  — of 
more  than  a page  — is  distinctly  long.  And  there  is 
no  doubt  that  long  paragraphs  produce  an  effect  dis- 
tinctly different  from  that  produced  by  short.  The 
effect  secured  by  long  paragraphs  I may  roughly  call 
solid  or  heavy  or  serious  ; the  effect  secured  by  short 
paragraphs  I may  roughly  call  light.  Each  effect 
is  perfectly  legitimate ; each  has  its  function ; in  a 
given  piece  of  writing  one  kind  or  the  other  may  with 
perfect  propriety  predominate  or  prevail. 

The  general  fact  that  long  paragraphs  are  dis- 
tinctly heavy  in  effect  is  tacitly  recognized  in  a 
familiar  commonplace.  With  all  their  manifold  un- 
wisdom, children  and  young  people  have  good  eyes : 
literally  and  metaphorically  they  have  a way,  morti- 
fying to  conscientious  old  folks,  of  seeing  things  pretty 
much  as  they  are.  Now,  when  we  ask  children,  or 
people  whose  minds  still  retain  the  guileless  veracity 


122 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


of  infancy,  to  read  a book,  their  first  question  is  apt 
to  be  whether  there  is  much  conversation  in  it.  If 
so,  they  are  willing  to  read  without  coaxing ; if  not, 
we  often  have  to  coax.  In  modern  books  speeches 
are  apt  to  be  short;  in  modern  books  each  speech 
makes  a distinct  paragraph.  Technically  speaking, 
then,  this  marked  preference  for  books  with  conver- 
sation in  them  amounts  to  an  instinctive  preference 
for  short  paragraphs ; nor  is  this  preference  exclu- 
sively infantine.  It  is  short  speeches  that  give  such 
swift  vitality  to  some  of  the  most  perennially  de- 
lightful scenes  of  Moli&re ; it  is  the  prevalence  of 
conversation  and  short  paragraphs  that  makes  so 
perennially  amusing  the  novels  of  the  elder  Dumas. 
Tired  people  of  my  acquaintance  generally  prefer 
Dumas  to  Walter  Scott;  when  I am  tired,  I greatly 
prefer  him  myself,  — and  so  far  as  I can  analyze 
the  preference,  it  is  largely  a matter  of  length  of 
paragraph. 

In  this  fact  we  have  the  simplest  guide  in  our  con- 
sideration of  the  principles  of  composition  as  they 
apply  to  paragraphs.  We  shall  discuss  them,  of 
course,  in  their  regular  order,  — first  the  principle  of 
Unity,  then  the  principle  of  Mass,  and  last  the  prin- 
ciple of  Coherence.  The  general  principle  of  Unity, 
which  concerns  the  substance  of  a composition,  you 
will  remember  to  be  this : Every  composition  should 
group  itself  about  one  central  idea.  In  applying  this 
principle  to  paragraphs,  the  textbooks  grow  pedanti- 
cally lifeless.  “ Unity  in  a paragraph,”  says  one, 


PARAGRAPHS. 


123 


“ implies  a sustained  purpose,  and  forbids  digression 
and  irrelevant  matter.’’  “ Unity  in  a paragraph,” 
says  another,  “ requires  that  every  statement  in  the 
paragraph  be  subservient  to  one  principal  affirmation.” 
“ Unity  in  a paragraph,”  says  a third,  “ is  subserved 
by  choosing  for  each  paragraph  a determinate  subject, 
to  which  all  parts  of  the  structure  are  related  as  con- 
stituting elements  in  its  development.”  For  my  part, 
I find  it  far  more  easy  to  understand  the  matter  when 
I simply  say  that  the  type  of  a paragraph  that  pos- 
sesses unity  is  a single  speech  in  a dialogue. 

A few  examples  within  anybody’s  experience  will 
define  this  matter  very  simply.  In  the  novels  of  the 
last  century  it  was  generally  the  fashion  to  write 
dialogue  in  great  masses,  — running  into  a single 
paragraph  a number  of  distinct  speeches.  You  can 
find  such  paragraphs  anywhere  in  Fielding.  In  any 
modern  novel,  on  the  other  hand,  each  speech  is 
kept  rigidly  distinct ; and  yet  there  is  one  case 
where  the  most  severe  modern  usage  would  place 
in  a single  paragraph  a number  of  independent 
speeches : this  is  when  you  wish  to  produce  the  effect 
of  confused  cries.  In  the  “ Arabian  Nights,”  you  will 
remember,  is  a tale  of  how  a prince  of  Persia  sets 
out  to  climb  an  enchanted  mountain  in  search  of  a 
speaking  bird.  If  he  turn  around,  he  is  sure  to  meet 
a fate  akin  to  that  of  Lot’s  wife,  and  to  become  a 
black  stone.  The  moment  he  begins  to  climb  he  is 
accosted  by  all  manner  of  taunting  voices  apparently 
just  behind  him,  which  try  to  make  him  turn  his 


124 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


head,  and  so  meet  his  fate.  A confused  vituperative 
clamor  this,  — each  speech  independent  of  every  other, 
but  all  combining  in  a single  exasperating  effect.  To 
separate  these  speeches  into  independent  paragraphs 
would  be  wholly  to  destroy  the  effect.  They  should 
be  written  in  a single  paragraph. 

So  much  for  what  unity  of  paragraph  means.  We 
may  understand  it  still  better  by  inquiring  how  to 
test  it.  While  not  scientifically  exact,  I have  found 
the  test  I shall  propose  to  you  very  instructive.  A 
paragraph  has  unity  when  you  can  state  its  substance 
in  a single  sentence ; otherwise  it  is  very  apt  to 
lack  it. 

This  subject  is  physically  too  large  to  be  con- 
veniently illustrated  here.  I must  ask  such  of  you 
as  wish  to  prove  it  by  observation,  then,  to  make 
observations  for  yourselves.  One  or  two  examples 
from  my  own  experience,  however,  may  be  suggestive 
aids.  At  Harvard  College,  some  years  ago,  I had 
occasion  to  consider  in  detail  Burke’s  speech  on  Con- 
ciliation with  America.  I have  never  read  a more 
astonishingly  lucid  presentation  of  a very  compli- 
cated subject.  How  is  this  lucidity  secured  ? was 
one  of  my  first  questions.  Pencil  in  hand,  I ana- 
lyzed. the  whole  speech  ; and  from  beginning  to  end 
I found  not  a single  paragraph  whose  substance  could 
not  be  summed  up  in  a single  sentence.  Again,  there 
is  in  this  country  a newspaper  whose  style  is  always 
notable  for  certainty  of  effect : I mean  “ The  Nation.” 
I often  dislike  what  it  says,  but  I have  rarely  found 


PARAGRAPHS. 


125 


in  it  a leading  article  that  at  least  rhetorically  I have 
not  admired.  On  analysis  I have  shown  myself  again 
and  again  that  whoever  write  these  leading  articles 
in  “ The  Nation  ” — I refer  to  the  political  articles,  not 
to  the  scholarly  letters,  and  so  on,  which  are  often 
disfigured  with  all  the  most  lifeless  pedantries  of 
modern  Germany  — rarely  write  a paragraph  whose 
substance  cannot  be  summed  up  in  a single  sentence. 
Of  this  masterly  making  of  paragraphs  in  “ The 
Nation,”  I shall  have  more  to  say  when  I come  to 
speak  of  their  mass. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  worth  our  while  here  to  glance 
at  this  whole  matter  of  unity  from  another  point  of 
view.  The  mere  physical  bulk  of  paragraphs  makes 
this  method  far  simpler  here  than  in  the  case  of  sen- 
tences. What,  we  may  now  ask  ourselves  with  some 
hope  of  a simple  answer,  are  the  chief  dangers  of  of- 
fence against  unity  of  composition  ? Obviously  they  are 
two : first,  we  may  break  up  discourse  into  needlessly 
small  fragments,  thereby,  in  this  case,  confusing  the 
function  of  the  paragraph  with  that  of  the  sentence ; 
in  the  second  place,  we  may  crowd  into  a single  unit 
of  composition  incongruous  matters,  thereby,  in  this 
case,  confusing  the  function  of  the  paragraph  with 
that  of  the  whole  composition. 

From  this  consideration  follows  directly  a practical 
suggestion.  Excessive  length  of  paragraph,  resulting 
in  heterogeneity,  and  excessive  brevity  of  paragraph, 
resulting  in  isolated  fragments  of  style,  are  alike  un- 
favorable to  unity.  Proverbial  wisdom  is  wisest  after 


126 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


all : here  we  are  face  to  face  with  a special  case  of 
what  we  all  know, — in  medio  tutissimus  ibis.  I may 
add  that  a study  of  the  historical  development  of  Eng- 
lish t<hids  on  the  whole  to  show  that  unity  of  para- 
graph is  constantly,  though  slowly,  improving.  As 
in  the  case  of  unity  of  sentence,  then,  principle  and 
usage  tend  to  agree. 

To  revert  for  a moment  to  the  matter  with  which 
I began  this  chapter,  you  will  remember  that  the 
way  to  use  what  we  get  into  our  heads  about  para- 
graphs is  precisely  opposite  to  the  way  to  use  what  we 
know  about  sentences.  In  that  case,  we  apply  our 
knowledge  in  revision ; in  this  case,  we  apply  it  in 
prevision, — in  the  deliberate  planning  of  our  work.  It 
follows,  then,  that  whoever  wishes  his  work  to  produce 
the  effect  secured  by  intelligent  unity  of  paragraph  may 
wisely  set  about  the  task  of  writing  as  deliberately  as 
this : on  a sheet  of  paper  he  may  prudently  write 
down  a scheme  of  the  work  he  wishes  to  execute, 
phrased  in  as  many  independent  sentences  as  he 
would  ultimately  have  paragraphs  in  his  composition ; 
and  in  filling  out  this  scheme  he  may  wisely  confine 
each  of  his  paragraphs  to  one  of  the  aspects  of  his 
subject  which  he  has  provisionally  phrased  in  a single 
sentence.  Unless  inspiration  override  all  canons  of 
art,  — it  sometimes  does  with  all  of  us,  — I know  of  no 
rule  of  literary  conduct  more  fruitful  of  good  than  this. 

So  we  come  to  the  principle  which  governs  the  ex- 
ternal form  of  paragraphs,  — the  principle  of  Mass : 
that  the  chief  parts  of  each  composition  should  be  so 


PARAGRAPHS. 


127 


placed  as  readily  to  catch  the  eye.  More  than  the 
other  principles  of  composition  this  applies  to  written 
discourse,  for  only  written  discourse  appeals  directly 
to  the  eye.  To  be  sure,  written  discourse  is  closely 
related  to  spoken.  The  principle  of  Mass  will  be 
found  by  no  means  useless  to  a mere  talker.  But, 
at  least  for  our  purposes,  it  is  primarily  a matter  not 
of  spoken  style,  but  of  written.  Now,  paragraphs  are 
essentially  elements  of  written  discourse.  It  follows 
directly  that  the  principle  of  Mass  — that  the  chief 
parts  of  a composition  should  be  so  placed  as  readily 
to  catch  the  eye  — is  above  all  applicable  to  the  com- 
position of  paragraphs. 

In  paragraphs,  too,  the  oral  usage  which  we  saw  in* 
terfere  with  the  principle  in  the  composition  of  sen- 
tences has  no  existence  at  all.  The  principle,  then, 
is  not  only  theoretically  applicable  to  paragraphs,  but 
to  a great  degree  actually  so  applicable  in  practice. 
How  conspicuous  the  chief  places  in  any  paragraph 
are,  a glance  at  any  printed  page  will  show.  Trained 
or  untrained,  the  human  eye  cannot  help  dwelling 
instinctively  a little  longer  on  the  beginnings  and  the 
ends  of  paragraphs  than  on  any  other  points  in  the 
discourse.  Let  any  one  of  you  take  up  a book  or  an 
article,  hitherto  strange,  and  try  in  a few  minutes  to 
get  some  notion  of  what  it  is  about.  Whoever  has 
tried  to  do  even  very  little  reviewing  for  the  news- 
papers ; whoever  has  tried  to  collect  authorities  for  a 
legal  brief,  — knows  the  experience  disagreeably  well. 
First,  you  instinctively  look  at  the  beginning  of  the 


128 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


article  or  book,  then  at  the  end ; then,  turning  over  the 
pages,  you  skim  them,  — in  other  words,  you  glance 
at  the  beginning  and  at  the  end  of  each  paragraph,  to 
see  whether  it  is  a thing  you  wish  to  read  more  care- 
fully. And  if  the  paragraphs  in  question  be  well 
massed,  you  are  made  aware  of  it  by  the  fact  that  the 
process  of  intelligent  skimming  is  mechanically  easy : 
that  you  can,  apparently  by  instinct,  arrest  your  atten- 
tion on  those  parts  which  serve  your  purpose.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  as  is  more  frequently  the  case,  the 
paragraphs  in  question  be  ill  massed,  you  find  diffi- 
culty in  discovering  what  you  want.  All  this  is  quite 
independent  of  sentence-structure,  and  of  unity,  and 
of  coherence.  It  is  a simple  question  of  visible,  ex- 
ternal outline ; and  it  means,  in  other  words,  that 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  a paragraph  are  beyond 
doubt  the  fittest  places  for  its  chief  ideas,  and  so  for 
its  chief  words. 

A definite  question  now  presents  itself  to  us : Is 
there  any  test  by  which  we  may  decide  what  the  chief 
ideas  and  the  chief  words  in  any  paragraph  ought  to 
be  ? We  have  already  seen  that  a paragraph  should 
possess  unity ; we  have  already  seen  that  the  test  of 
unity  in  a paragraph  is  whether  we  can  sum  up  its 
substance  in  a single  sentence.  Now,  clearly  the  chief 
words  in  a typical  sentence  are  the  subject  and  the 
predicate.  Clearly,  then,  in  general,  the  chief  ideas 
in  a paragraph  are  those  which  are  summarized  in 
the  subject  and  the  predicate  of  the  sentence  which 
summarizes  the  whole.  Our  question,  then,  proves 


PARAGRAPHS. 


129 


one  which,  by  implication,  we  have  already  answered. 
A paragraph  whose  unity  can  be  demonstrated  by 
summarizing  its  substance  in  a sentence  whose  sub- 
ject shall  be  a summary  of  its  opening  sentence,  and 
whose  predicate  shall  be  a summary  of  its  closing 
sentence,  is  theoretically  well  massed. 

A matter  so  technical  as  this  demands  illustration. 
In  my  lectures  at  Harvard  College  I have  found  my- 
self generally  able  to  illustrate  it  by  simply  turning  to 
whatever  has  happened  to  be  the  last  number  of  “ The 
Nation.”  I do  not  mean  that  it  is  observed  in  every 
single  leading  article.  “ The  Nation”  is  too  well  para- 
graphed to  be  so  palpably  monotonous.  I do  mean  that 
I have  rarely  turned  to  “ The  Nation  ” for  illustration 
of  this  principle  without  finding,  in  the  first  number  I 
opened,  some  article  which  would  illustrate  it  admira- 
bly. As  I write  these  lines  I happen  to  have  no  fresh 
copy  of  “ The  Nation  ” at  hand : at  random,  then,  I 
take  one  of  the  illustrations  which  I have  used  at 
college.  In  “ The  Nation  ” for  Nov.  28,  1889,  was  a 
leading  article  entitled,  “ The  Universities  and  the 
Professions.”  It  contained  four  paragraphs  : these  I 
have  summarized  by  the  simple  plan  of  reducing  each 
to  a single  sentence  whose  subject  is  a summary  of 
the  opening  sentence  of  the  paragraph,  and  whose 
predicate  is  a summary  of  its  closing. 

Here  is  the  summary  : — 

IT  1 : The  decline  in  the  proportion  of  students  to  popu- 
lation ...  is  noticeable  in  the  United  States  and  in 
England. 


9 


130 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


IT  2 : Prominent  reasons  for  this  are  that  college  delays 
the  beginning  of  professional  life,  . . . and  that  college- 
bred  men  prove  to  dislike  trade. 

% 3:  Colleges,  after  much  deliberation,  . . . have  begun 
formally  to  consider  the  “ reduction  of  the  college 
course.” 

f 4 : The  increasing  gravity  of  the  situation  . . . makes 
“ Study  or  clear  out  ” the  proper  motto  for  any  college. 

General  Summary:  The  decline  in  the  proportion  of 
students  to  population  . . . makes  “ Study  or  clear  out” 
the  proper  motto  for  any  college. 

Each  paragraph,  yon  see,  is  theoretically  perfect  in 
mass.  What  is  more,  the  excellence  of  the  mass  goes 
a step  farther.  If  we  try  to  summarize  the  whole 
article,  we  shall  see  in  a moment  that  we  can  do  so 
by  the  simple  process  of  writing  a sentence  whose 
subject  is  a summary  of  the  opening  sentence  of  the 
first  paragraph,  and  whose  predicate  is  a summary  of 
the  closing  sentence  of  the  last  paragraph.  The  mass 
of  the  whole  composition,  then,  is  theoretically  just  as 
good  as  the  mass  of  each  separate  paragraph.  The 
satisfaction  which  this  particular  article  gave  me  may 
have  been  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  I happen  to  agree 
with  every  word  of  it ; but  I think,  after  all,  that  it 
came  more  from  the  fact  that  its  mass  is  theoretically 
perfect. 

Theoretically  perfect,  though,  I should  repeat  with 
emphasis.  For  I am  aware  that  in  my  discussion  of 
this  phase  of  our  subject  I have  laid  down  the  law  with 
dangerous  dogmatism.  No  principle  of  composition 


PARAGRAPHS. 


131 


is  anywhere  absolute.  Good  use,  wherever  such  a 
thing  exists,  is  supreme ; and  we  have  already 
seen  that  even  in  paragraphs  good  use  has  pretty 
nearly  established  one  rule.  This  is  phrased,  like  the 
better  part  of  human  wisdom,  in  a very  old  saw : 
Ars  celare  artem , — the  finest  art  is  imperceptible. 
Now,  nothing  is  more  aggressively  perceptible  than 
monotonous  uniformity  of  manner.  To  follow  any 
principle  of  composition  so  far  as  to  neglect  the  neces- 
sity of  subtile  variety  of  style,  is  to  be  monotonously 
uniform,  to  violate  good  use,  — in  brief,  to  be  (what 
no  real  artist  ever  was)  unintelligent.  Principle  is 
not  rule;  it  is  a guide,  not  a master.  To  neglect 
it  is  to  go  astray  ; to  follow  it  blindly  is  to  know 
not  where  you  are.  Above  all  principle,  above  all 
else,  the  deepest  secret  of  all  fine  art  is  fine  good 
sense. 

So  far  in  my  discussion  of  the  mass  of  paragraphs 
I have  called  your  attention  to  nothing  wholly  new  to 
us.  I have  merely  shown  how  to  the  planning  — the 
prevision  — of  paragraphs  a careful  writer  may  apply 
just  the  same  principles  that  he  should  apply  to  the 
revision  of  sentences.  We  have  now  reached  a point 
in  our  discussion  of  the  principle  of  Mass  where  I believe 
we  may  well  glance  at  another  phase  of  it.  The  bulk 
of  sentences  is  too  small  to  permit  this  phase  to  be  con- 
sidered in  connection  with  them.  The  bulk  of  para- 
graphs is  large  enough  to  make  it  now  worth  attention. 
In  whole  compositions  we  shall  find  it  more  important 
still.  Briefly  phrased,  it  is  simply  this  : Due  propor- 


132 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


tion  should  subsist  between  principal  and  subordinate 
matters. 

Like  everything  else  we  are  considering,  this  is  at 
bottom  a matter  of  simple  good  sense.  Indeed,  it  is 
after  all  a matter  on  which  we  have  touched  before  : 
it  is  a mode  of  the  general  principle  that  our  number  of 
words  should  be  carefully  governed  by  what  effect  we 
wish  to  produce.  But  in  its  application  to  paragraphs 
it  really  means  something  almost  as  definite  as  this : 
that,  for  the  purpose  of  not  misleading  the  reader’s 
eye,  we  should  generally  give  more  space  to  important 
parts  of  our  subject  than  to  unimportant. 

Take  the  last  paragraph  of  the  leading  article  from 
“ The  Nation  ” to  which  I have  already  called  your  at- 
tention. Its  substance  may  be  summarized  in  this  sen- 
tence : “ The  increasing  gravity  of  the  situation  . . . 
makes  ...  4 Study  or  clear  out  ’ the  proper  motto  for 
any  college.”  Now,  as  a matter  of  fact  a writer,  in 
his  development  of  the  paragraph,  might  wish  to  empha- 
size either  the  subject  or  the  predicate  of  this  sentence ; 
he  might  wish  us  to  feel  the  gravity  of  the  situation, 
or  he  might  wish  us  rather  to  feel  how  the  gravity 
might  be  lightened.  According  as  one  or  the  other 
of  these  views  predominated  in  his  mind,  he  might  to 
advantage  vary  the  number  of  his  words.  By  giving 
more  space  to  the  gravity  of  the  situation,  he  would 
probably  leave  the  gravity  of  the  situation  more  deeply 
imbedded  in  a reader’s  mind  ; by  giving  more  space  to 
the  proper  motto  for  any  college,  he  would  probably 
give  similar  weight  to  the  proper  motto  for  any  col- 


PARAGRAPHS. 


133 


lege.  In  brief,  according  to  the  principle  of  Mass,  a 
student  of  the  mass  of  paragraphs  must  consider  not 
only  the  actual  placing  of  words,  but  their  actual 
number. 

In  our  discussion  of  sentences  we  decided  that 
in  a given  composition  the  end  is  a more  emphatic 
place  than  the  beginning  : here  we  found  lay  the 
secret  of  anti-climax,  — essentially  a false  emphasis. 
In  paragraphs  I believe  this  truth  more  important 
still.  A glance  at  any  printed  page  will  show  that 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  a paragraph  are  dis- 
tinctly more  conspicuous  things  than  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  a sentence.  We  may  repeat,  then, 
more  emphatically  than  ever,  the  rule  with  which 
we  brought  to  a close  our  discussion  of  the  mass  of 
sentences : End  with  words  that  deserve  distinction. 

All  that  remains  before  we  proceed  to  the  principle 
of  Coherence  is  to  ask  how  far  the  historical  de- 
velopment of  the  English  language  warrants  the 
conclusions  we  have  reached. 

So  far  as  I have  analyzed  English  paragraphs,  they 
follow  no  particular  law.  In  old  English  and  in  new 
I have  found  well-massed  paragraphs  ; I have  also 
found  many  more  paragraphs  which  may  be  roughly 
said  to  have  no  mass  at  all.  But  at  the  same  time 
I have  found  that  the  effect  of  a piece  of  writing 
whose  paragraphs  are  well  massed  is  almost  always 
a great  deal  more  definite  than  the  effect  of  any 
other  kind;  and  over  and  over  again  I have  found, 
just  as  I find  in  “ The  Nation,”  that  the  secret  of  a 


134 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


satisfactory  style  may  often  be  discovered  in  the  skil- 
ful massing  of  its  paragraphs.  While  there  is  no 
consent  of  good  use  to  govern  us,  then,  there  is  no 
consent  of  good  use  to  thwart  us ; and  I believe 
that  to-day  no  writer  can  intelligently  follow  any  one 
principle  with  more  certainty  than  that  which  shall 
encourage  him  carefully  to  mass  his  paragraphs. 

So  we  come  to  the  principle  of  Coherence,  which 
governs  the  internal  structure  of  paragraphs  : that 
the  relation  of  each  part  of  a composition  to  its 
neighbors  should  be  unmistakable.  Applying  this 
principle  to  paragraphs,  — remembering  that  a para- 
graph is  a composition  of  sentences,  and  is  to  a sen- 
tence what  a sentence  is  to  a word,  — we  can  see  at 
once  exactly  what  it  means.  A paragraph  is  coherent 
when  the  relation  of  each  sentence  to  the  context  is 
unmistakable. 

In  discussing  the  coherence  of  sentences,  you  will 
remember  we  found  the  subject  so  full  of  detail  that 
we  were  compelled  for  convenience  to  divide  it  into 
three  parts.  All  general  rules  which  concern  cohe- 
rence, so  frequent  in  the  textbooks,  we  found  might 
be  grouped  under  one  of  three  heads : order  of  words, 
constructions,  or  connectives.  In  discussing  the  co- 
herence of  paragraphs  we  may  best  follow  exactly  the 
same  method  : it  will  bring  us,  I dare  say,  to  nothing 
new;  but  I think  it  will  serve  to  fix  the  principle 
more  firmly  in  our  minds.  Coherence  in  the  order 
of  the  sentences  which  make  a paragraph,  then,  co- 
herence in  the  construction  of  these  sentences,  and 


PARAGRAPHS.  135 

finally,  the  use  of  connectives  in  paragraphs,  we  shall 
consider  in  turn. 

First,  then,  for  coherence  in  the  order  of  sentences. 
The  general  principle  that  underlies  it  is  this  : Matters 
closely  connected  in  thought  should  be  kept  together, 
matters  distinct  in  thought  kept  apart.  In  sentences, 
you  will  remember,  this  principle  is  much  thwarted 
by  good  use.  Uninflected  English  indicates  the  gram- 
matical relation  of  word  to  word  chiefly  by  their  actual 
order ; the  limits  within  which  we  are  at  liberty  to 
vary  the  order  of  our  words  in  sentences,  then,  are 
very  narrow.  In  paragraphs,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  is  no  such  trouble.  So  far  as  I know,  there 
is  absolutely  no  reason  why  we  should  not  arrange 
our  sentences  in  any  order  we  please.  We  may 
apply  this  principle  with  unfettered  freedom. 

This  perfect  freedom  and  the  axiomatic  good  sense 
of  the  principle  would  lead  us  to  expect  careful 
writers  in  general  to  observe  it.  Oddly  enough, 
they  do  nothing  of  the  kind ; in  careful  writers,  as 
in  other  human  beings,  actual  manifestations  of 
practical  good  sense  are  not  so  frequent  as  to  grow 
tedious.  The  truth  is  that  the  human  head  is  nor- 
mally muddled ; to  bring  order  out  of  the  chaos 
that  dismays  each  one  of  us  within  himself  is  no 
small  feat.  It  has  taken  me  the  better  part  of  ten 
years  to  think  out,  from  a snarl  of  books  and  of 
practical  experiments,  the  very  obvious  principles 
that  I am  trying  to  lay  before  you  now ; and  even 
now  I am  fully  aware  that  they  might  well  be  thought 


136 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


out  and  composed  more  definitely  and  firmly.  So 
our  difficulties  are  not  solved  when  we  quite  under- 
stand that  according  to  the  principle  of  Coherence 
matters  connected  in  thought  should  be  kept  together, 
and  that  in  paragraphs  there  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  so  keep  them.  After  all,  what  matters 
really  are  most  closely  connected  in  thought  ? Every 
new  case  in  any  man’s  experience  brings  up  this 
question  afresh ; every  new  case  demands  a new  an- 
swer. Before  we  can  tell  anything  about  form  we 
must  understand  much  about  substance ; and  this, 
with  our  poor  muddled  human  heads,  is  no  easy 
thing. 

In  truth,  we  are  now  face  to  face  with  a fact  that 
makes  this  art  of  composition  utterly  discouraging 
to  some  temperaments,  and  profoundly  fascinating 
to  others.  Every  problem  that  presents  itself  to  a 
literary  artist  is  really  a new  one.  In  human  life 
there  cannot  be  any  two  instants  whose  conditions  are 
precisely  the  same.  The  moment  when  it  is  perfectly 
easy  to  disentangle  from  the  riotous  thicket  of  thought 
and  emotion  we  all  know  within  ourselves  the  exact 
thoughts  and  emotions  whose  mutual  relations  as  well 
as  whose  independent  selves  shall  serve  our  purpose 
of  imparting  to  readers  what  we  have  in  mind, 
is  a moment  that  to  most  of  us  never  comes.  We 
are  face  to  face  with  a problem  that  is  ever  remak- 
ing itself.  Nothing  but  constantly  fresh  intelligence 
can  at  any  moment  solve  it.  Lazy  minds  give  up  in 
despair : “ I can’t  write  anyhow,”  say  students  to  me 


PARAGRAPHS. 


13T 


year  after  year ; they  mean  that  they  won’t  think. 
But  an  active  mind  is  constantly  more  stimulated,  by 
each  difficulty  it  surmounts,  courageously  to  attack 
the  next.  The  contest  is  one  where  wit  may  always 
win  much : if  no  absolute  victory  be  possible,  a hard 
fight  is  sure  to  bring  some  measure  of  success. 

But  I am  straying  again  from  the  technical  matter 
properly  before  us.  The  general  principle  underlying 
coherence  in  the  order  of  sentences  we  have  seen  to 
be  this : Matters  closely  connected  in  thought  should 
be  kept  together,  matters  distinct  in  thought  kept 
apart.  We  must  turn  now  to  the  second  phase  of 
coherence,  — coherence  in  constructions. 

Here,  too,  there  is  a simple  general  statement  of 
the  principle  we  should  keep  in  mind : Phrases  that 
are  similar  in  significance  should  be  similar  in  form. 
Outward  form  is,  after  all,  what  we  see  in  style,  just 
as  truly  as  it  is  what  we  see  in  human  beings ; and 
the  same  general  law  of  thought  which  makes  all  who 
have  eyes  know  that  men  are  not  in  all  respects  as 
trees  walking,  impels  us  instinctively  to  class  together 
phrases  and  sentences  that  look  and  sound  alike. 
This  fact  is  very  little  appreciated  by  writers  in  gen- 
eral : in  general,  as  I have  said,  hardly  anybody  seems 
quite  to  have  understood  the  merely  physical  condi- 
tions involved  in  the  fact  that  written  style  is  ad- 
dressed primarily  to  the  eye.  But  though  the  books 
of  Rhetoric  say  nothing  of  this  phase  of  the  matter, 
recent  books  have  a good  deal  to  say  about  the 
general  principle  that  phrases  similar  in  thought 


138 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


should  be  similar  in  form.  The  rule  of  parallel  con- 
struction, some  of  them  call  it,  — a rule  which  any 
one  can  see  has  a good  deal  to  do  with  such  devices 
as  antithesis  and  balance. 

Perhaps  the  easiest  way  of  discussing  it,  and  of 
beginning  to  appreciate  its  scope  and  its  limits,  is  to 
consider  one  or  two  simple  examples.  For  our  pur- 
poses we  may  consider  as  a paragraph  the  most  famil- 
iar piece  of  English  in  the  language,  — the  Lord’s 
Prayer.  Every  one  of  us  knows  and  feels  its  marvel- 
lous effect,  merely  as  a piece  of  style.  Few  of  us,  I 
take  it,  have  ever  thought  of  analyzing  the  means  by 
which  this  effect  is  produced.  It  begins  with  an 
invocation  : “ Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven.”  Then 
come  three  clauses  of  praise : “ Hallowed  be  Thy 
name ; Thy  kingdom  come ; Thy  will  be  done  on 
earth  as  it  is  in  heaven.”  Then  come  four  distinct 
petitions : “ Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread ; and 
forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  those  that  tres- 
pass against  us  ; lead  us  not  into  temptation ; but  de- 
liver us  from  evil.”  Finally  comes  a final  clause  of 
praise : “ For  Thine  is  the  kingdom,  and  the  power, 
and  the  glory,  for  ever  and  ever.”  Examining  these 
clauses,  we  find  that  the  first  words  of  the  invocation 
call  our  attention  directly  to  the  infinite  fatherhood  of 
God.  There  are  eight  other  clauses,  — three  of  praise, 
four  of  petition,  and  a final  one  of  praise.  Each  of 
these  is  a separate  address  direct  to  God.  And  of 
these  eight,  all  but  the  first,  which  immediately 
follows  the  invocation,  are  composed  on  the  same 


PARAGRAPHS. 


139 


plan  : the  first  word  addresses  itself  straight  to 
God,  — “ Thy  kingdom  come  ; Thy  will  be  done  ; ” 
and  so  on.  First  God’s  self,  then  God’s  attributes 
and  acts,  in  every  one  of  them.  Alter  a single  word 
here,  shake  the  parallel  construction  in  the  slightest 
degree,  and  some  of  the  marvellous  effect  is  lost.  And 
yet  if  we  alter  the  first  of  the  eight  clauses  that  follow 
the  invocation,  if  we  make  the  construction  of  the 
prayer  absolutely  parallel,  if  instead  of  “ Hallowed  be 
Thy  name,”  we  say,  “ Thy  name  be  hallowed,”  we  find 
the  marvellous  effect  impaired  still  more.  In  truth,  I 
believe  the  reason  lies  here : the  invocation  calling 
up  the  infinitude  of  God  must  stand  for  an  instant 
alone ; to  put  just  beside  it  the  idea  of  one  of  the 
attributes  of  God  would  be  never  so  subtilely  to  suggest 
a limitation  of  what  in  its  very  essence  knows  no 
limit.  But  the  word  hallowed  applies  to  all  the  infini- 
tudes. Again,  by  the  inversion  of  this  single  clause, 
the  first  two  of  God’s  attributes  to  which  our  atten- 
tion is  called  — “ Thy  name  ” and  “ Thy  kingdom  ” — 
are  brought  together : it  is  only  after  this  that  the 
construction  permits  us  to  contemplate  God’s  attri- 
butes and  actions  one  by  one.  And  here,  I believe, 
lies  much  of  the  secret  of  the  marvellous  effect  of  the 
prayer.  Of  course,  no  one  would  for  a moment  think 
that  such  deliberate  technical  reasons  governed  the 
translators  who  gave  the  Lord’s  Prayer  its  English 
form ; but  I have  chosen  this  greatest  of  examples 
just  because  it  can  tell  you  better  than  any  lesser  one 
how  even  the  most  divine  effects  of  literature  can  be 


140 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


and  must  be  produced  only  by  such  technical  means 
as  everybody  recognizes  in  the  petty  parts  of  human 
style. 

The  amazing  value  of  parallel  construction,  of 
coherence  in  constructions,  I cannot  more  specifically 
show  you ; nor  yet  the  way  in  which  the  other  princi- 
ple of  coherence  — that  matters  which  belong  together 
in  thought  should  be  kept  together  — can  never  be 
neglected.  Whoever  is  curious  to  study  the  effect  of 
parallel  construction  in  secular  literature  cannot  spend 
a few  minutes  more  profitably  than  in  examining  the 
celebrated  description  of  Westminster  Hall  in  Macau- 
lay’s essay  on  Warren  Hastings.  By  simply  repeat- 
ing the  word  here  at  intervals,  Macaulay  gives  that 
passage  the  notable  coherence  that  the  most  hasty 
reader  must  feel.  For  our  part,  we  may  now  best  turn 
to  an  example  where  neglect  of  the  principle  in  ques- 
tion produces  a notably  grotesque  result. 

In  our  consideration  of  the  coherence  of  sentences, 
we  saw  how  serious  and  common  a fault  lay  in  need- 
less shift  of  subject  or  of  voice.  The  sentence  by 
which  I illustrated  this,  you  will  remember,  was  a 
very  simple  one,  where  in  eight  words  both  subject 
and  voice  were  shifted.  “ I started  up,  and  a scream 
was  heard,”  wrote  a student  whom  we  decided  to  have 
meant  one  of  two  other  distinct  things : either,  “ I 
started  up  and  screamed,”  or,  “ I started  up  with  a 
scream.”  Now,  although  it  would  be  foolishly  pedan- 
tic to  lay  down  a rule  so  absolute  as  that  in  a para- 
graph every  sentence  should  have  the  same  subject, 


PARAGRAPHS. 


141 


and  every  principal  verb  be  in  the  same  voice,  it  is  not 
at  all  foolish  to  say  that,  even  in  the  separate  sen- 
tences of  a paragraph,  a needless,  unmeaning  shift  of 
subject,  or  voice,  or  both,  is  according  to  the  principle 
of  parallel  construction  very  damaging  to  coherence. 
A single  example  will  show  exactly  what  1 mean. 
Some  months  ago  Mr.  Henry  Grady,  an  eminent 
citizen  of  Georgia,  died.  Here  is  what  appeared  next 
morning  in  one  of  the  Boston  newspapers  : — 

44  Atlanta,  Ga.,  Dec.  23,  1889.  Henry  W.  Grady  died 
this  morning.  He  was  born  in  Athens,  Ga.,  in  1851, 
His  father  was  a wealthy  business  man  of  Athens,  and 
although  a Union  man,  went  with  his  State  when  she 
seceded.  He  was  killed  while  fighting  before  Petersburg, 
where  he  commanded  a North  Carolina  regiment.  The 
funeral  has  not  yet  been  definitely  arranged,  but  he  will 
be  buried  in  Atlanta,  probably  on  Thursday.” 

The  battles  before  Petersburg,  you  remember,  occurred 
in  1864.  It  is  simply  a stupid  shift  of  subject,  a stu- 
pid neglect  of  parallel  construction,  that  calls  up  the 
distressing  picture  of  gallant  Colonel  Grady  lying  un- 
buried for  a quarter  of  a century. 

Before  finally  leaving  this  principle  of  parallel  con- 
struction, of  coherence  in  constructions,  however,  I 
must  recall  to  you  the  fact  that  the  only  form  in 
which  good  use  interferes  with  our  composition  of 
paragraphs  is  this : Monotony  of  construction  is  pal- 
pably artificial ; and  palpable  artifice  is  never  good 
art.  While  a careful  writer,  then,  should  never  ne- 


142 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


gleet  the  principle  of  parallel  construction,  he  should 
be  constantly  on  the  alert  never  to  follow  it  blindly. 
The  secret  of  all  fine  art,  we  must  never  forget,  is  fine 
good  sense. 

So  we  come  to  the  third  phase  of  coherence  in  the 
composition  of  paragraphs,  — coherence  in  the  use  of 
connectives.  What  we  found  true  of  the  composition 
of  sentences  is  true  here  too.  When  neither  order 
nor  constructions  will  serve  to  make  unmistakable  the 
relations  between  the  parts  of  any  composition,  we 
should  use  connectives  with  scrupulous  precision.  I 
need  hardly  recall  to  you  the  minor  conclusions  that 
we  reached  here  : how  immensely  important  it  is 
scrupulously  to  distinguish  thoughts  that  are  co-or- 
dinate — for  our  purposes,  of  equal  value  — from 
thoughts  some  of  which  are  subordinate  to  others. 
We  analyzed  those  little  sentences,  “ I started  up  with 
a scream,”  and,  “ I started  up  and  screamed,  ” and 
saw  how,  for  all  their  similarity,  they  really  meant 
different  things.  I need  not  repeat  the  other  minor 
conclusion  we  reached : that  connectives  in  the  body 
of  a clause  knit  style  more  firmly  than  initial  con- 
nectives possibly  can.  Nor  can  I here,  any  more  than 
I could  there,  pause  to  call  your  attention  to  the  great 
richness  of  uninflected  English  in  purely  connective 
parts  of  speech.  In  Bain’s  Rhetoric,  the  curious  may 
find  them  collected  by  the  dozen.  All  I can  do  is 
briefly  to  examine  just  how  these  principles,  already 
familiar,  apply  to  the  composition  of  paragraphs. 

In  the  first  place,  I would  recall  your  attention  for 


PARAGRAPHS. 


143 


a moment  to  the  newspaper  account  of  poor  Mr. 
Grady.  We  saw  clearly  how  a needless  shift  of 
subject  there  made  a serious  matter  ridiculous.  I 
would  call  your  attention  now  to  the  fact  that  what 
contributes  to  the  general  incoherence  of  the  para- 
graph in  question  is  a very  careless  use  of  a connec- 
tive. This  connective  is  the  pronoun  he , the  subject 
of  the  fourth  sentence.  “ Henry  W.  Grady  ” is  the 
subject  of  the  first  sentence ; “ He  ” (H.  W.  G.) 
is  the  subject  of  the  second  sentence,  and  by  directly 
referring  to  the  subject  of  the  first,  indicates  clearly 
enough  that  the  relation  of  the  second  sentence  to  the 
first  is  simply  cumulative.  “ His  father”  is  the  sub- 
ject of  the  third  sentence ; and  the  possessive  pronoun 
his  serves  here  just  the  same  connective  purpose  which 
in  the  last  sentence  was  served  by  the  nominative 
pronoun  he.  The  subject  of  the  fourth  sentence  is 
again  the  pronoun  he  ; now,  this  might  grammatically 
refer  either  to  the  father  or  to  the  son.  It  is  subtilely 
ambiguous,  — a connective  which  does  not  indicate  the 
relation  of  its  sentence  to  the  context  with  scrupulous 
precision.  This  slight  incoherence,  really  involving 
a shift  of  subject,  is  what  leads  to  the  grotesque 
incoherence  that  follows  ; and  we  have  already  looked 
at  this  passage  long  enough  to  see  the  meaning  of  a 
general  statement  about  connectives : any  word  in  a 
given  clause  or  sentence  which  specifically  refers  to 
a preceding  clause  or  sentence  may  be  described  as  a 
connective. 

A maker  of  paragraphs,  a writer  of  any  long  con- 


144 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


secutive  composition,  cannot  keep  this  fact  too  con- 
stantly in  mind.  How  important  it  may  be  was  shown 
me  by  a rather  interesting  experience  some  years  ago. 
I happened  to  be,  in  company  with  a very  skilful  re- 
porter, an  eye-witness  of  a prolonged  and  very  excit- 
ing political  convention.  I had  nothing  to  do  but 
look  on.  My  companion  was  less  fortunate.  Wholly 
unaided,  and  in  the  midst  of  such  a tumult  as  I have 
hardly  seen  elsewhere,  he  had  to  write  column  after 
column  describing  just  what  happened.  As  fast  as  a 
sheet  was  filled  he  handed  it  to  a telegraph  messenger ; 
and  it  was  on  its  way  over  the  wires  before  the  next 
was  fairly  begun.  In  subsequently  reading  the  reports 
thus  composed,  I was  very  much  impressed  by  their 
firm  coherence.  On  analyzing  them,  I discovered  that 
in  almost  every  sentence  — and  by  no  means  at  the 
beginning  of  it  — there  was  some  word  which  directly 
referred  to  something  in  the  preceding  sentence.  In 
short,  my  reporting  friend,  consciously  or  not,  had 
practically  mastered  the  secret  of  dove-tailing  style. 

In  paragraphs  even  more  than  in  sentences,  I find, 
firm  coherence  depends  on  connectives  which  are  not 
at  the  beginning  or  the  end  of  the  parts  of  a com- 
position which  they  connect,  but  are  firmly  imbedded 
in  the  midst  of  them ; and  yet  there  is  no  common- 
place which  has  given  me  as  a teacher  more  needless 
bother  than  one  which  imperfectly  phrases  this  very 
idea.  A sentence,  some  of  the  books  say,  should 
never  begin  with  and  or  but.  It  is  true  that  most  sen- 
tences cannot  properly  begin  with  and  or  but ; and 


PARAGRAPHS. 


145 


the  reason  for  this  is  obvious  : comparatively  few  sen- 
tences stand  to  the  preceding  in  strictly  co-ordinate 
or  strictly  disjunctive  relations.  Unless  sentences  so 
stand,  an  initial  and  or  but  is  an  impropriety.  But  to 
say  that  no  sentence  should  begin  with  and  or  but  is 
to  say,  what  is  clearly  absurd,  that  the  relation  of  a 
sentence  to  the  preceding  should  never  be  either  strictly 
co-ordinate  or  strictly  disjunctive.  Like  most  com- 
monplaces, however,  this  of  ours  is  not  meaningless. 
As  a matter  of  fact,  people  do  not  think  with  preci- 
sion ; and  thought  which  lacks  precision  commonly 
presents  itself  in  experience  as  either  a simple  addi- 
tion to  what  precedes  or  an  abrupt  breaking  off.  In 
the  former  case,  one  instinctively  writes  and  ; in  the 
latter,  but.  And  there  are  few  more  useful  practical 
suggestions  in  composition  than  this : Use  no  more 
ands  or  buts  than  you  can  help. 

So  much  for  the  principle  of  Coherence  as  it  applies 
to  the  composition  of  paragraphs.  The  test  of  cohe- 
rence in  paragraphs  is  as  simple  as  in  sentences  : A 
paragraph  where  the  mutual  relations  of  sentences 
are  not  unmistakable  is  incoherent ; a paragraph 
where  these  mutual  relations  are  unmistakable  is  co- 
herent. As  in  sentences,  perfect  coherence  is  perhaps 
unattainable ; but  certainly  it  may  be  indefinitely 
approached. 

As  for  the  historical  development  of  Coherence  in 
the  English  paragraph,  I can  only  say  very  hastily 
that,  on  the  whole,  coherence  in  the  order  of  sentences 
tends  to  grow  stronger;  that  coherence  in  construe- 


146 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


tions,  like  other  devices  which  come  dangerously  near 
palpable  artificiality,  seems  certainly  not  to  have 
developed  during  the  past  century  or  so ; and  that  the 
inevitable  hastiness  of  much  modern  style  makes  in- 
telligent coherence  in  the  use  of  connectives  far  less 
common  than  it  might  well  be.  But  save  for  the  pal- 
pable artificiality  which  good  use  condemns  in  those 
who  blindly  follow  the  principle  of  parallel  construc- 
tion, there  is  nothing  in  modern  usage  which  should 
stand  in  the  way  of  any  one  who  intelligently  tries  to 
make  paragraphs  coherent. 

To  make  as  simple  as  I could  the  principles  which 
may  govern  the  planning  of  paragraphs,  — the  same 
principles,  I cannot  too  often  repeat,  which  govern 
any  literary  composition,  — I have  laid  them  down 
very  dogmatically;  and  the  words  in  which  I have 
stated  them  sound  dangerously  like  absolute  rules  of 
style.  There  are  two  ways  of  doing  this  thing,  they 
seem  to  say,  — two  ways  of  composing  a paragraph : 
one  right,  the  other  wrong.  Within  certain  very 
broad  limits,  this  approaches  truth.  As  a general 
rule,  paragraphs  that  have  coherent  unity  and  firm 
mass  perform  their  office  better  than  paragraphs  with 
other  traits.  But  this  is  not  because  paragraphs  with 
other  traits  are  essentially  vicious ; it  is  simply  be- 
cause as  a general  rule  writers  wish  to  produce  an 
effect  of  firm  precision ; and  the  principles  I have 
so  dogmatically  stated  are  the  principles  by  means 
of  which  an  effect  of  firm  precision  may  most 
probably  be  secured.  If  another  effect  than  that 


PARAGRAPHS. 


147 


of  firm  precision  be  the  effect  which  a writer  wishes 
to  produce,  he  may  most  probably  produce  it  by 
deliberate  disregard  of  nearly  everything  that  in 
this  discussion  of  paragraphs  I have  advised.  An 
effect  of  confusion  can  be  produced  in  no  more  simple 
way  than  by  deliberately  disregarding  coherent  unity 
of  paragraph  ; an  effect  of  indecision  in  no  more  sim- 
ple way  than  by  deliberate  weakening  of  mass.  And 
the  maker  of  paragraphs,  just  as  truly  as  the  maker 
of  sentences  or  the  chooser  of  words,  has  before  him 
at  any  given  moment  no  more  definite  question  than 
this : What  is  the  effect  I wish  to  produce,  and  how 
may  I best  produce  it  ? 

In  answering  this  question,  we  find  ourselves  just 
where  we  found  ourselves  at  the  close  of  our  consid- 
eration of  words  and  of  sentences.  In  deciding  just 
what  effect  we  wish  to  produce,  the  inevitable  inade- 
quacy of  the  means  at  our  disposal  to  the  matters  we 
would  express  — the  inevitable  limit  of  vocabulary  — 
compels  us  carefully  to  consider  two  phases  of  the 
inevitably  complicated  thing  we  wish  to  express.  In 
the  first  place,  we  must  ask  ourselves  what  the  actual 
facts  are  which  we  wish  to  denote ; in  the  second,  we 
must  ask  ourselves  what  are  the  associated  thoughts 
and  emotions  which  we  wish  to  connote. 

In  the  composition  of  sentences,  we  saw,  denotation 
and  connotation  are  things  just  as  real,  just  as  vital, 
as  in  the  choice  of  words.  In  truth  they  are  things 
inevitable  to  any  expression  of  human  thought.  No 
word  can  be  quite  free  from  suggestions  of  things  it 


148 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


leaves  unnamed ; and  if  this  be  true,  no  combination 
of  words  can  be  quite  free  from  suggestions  of  things 
and  of  combinations  of  things  that  do  not  meet  the 
eye  of  a reader  or  the  ear  of  a listener.  You  will 
remember  the  example  I gave  you  of  how  the  arrange- 
ment of  mere  proper  names  in  climax  or  in  anti- 
climax actually  alters  the  whole  character  of  a clause. 
“The  English  Bible,  Shakspere,  Addison,  and  Fisher 
Ames,”  says  one  thing , “ Fisher  Ames,  Addison, 
Shakspere,  and  the  English  Bible,”  says  another.  True 
of  mere  words  in  composition,  this  is  far  truer  of 
sentences  in  composition.  A little  while  ago  I hap- 
pened to  read  an  admirable  translation  of  the  prose 
of  Heine.  The  effects  Heine  produced  were  remark- 
ably reproduced  by  the  translator.  Even  in  English 
they  were  not  short  of  amazing;  and  the  secret  of 
them  seemed  to  lie  chiefly  in  the  point  to  which  I am 
now  calling  your  attention.  The  connotation  of  one 
sentence  was  again  and  again  so  startlingly  different 
from  the  connotation  of  the  last  that  it  made  one  stop, 
half  breathless.  Here  is  a man,  one  said,  who  sees 
infinities  all  at  once,  — great  and  small,  pure  and  vile, 
celestial  and  devilish  and  earthly.  And  yet  almost  all 
this  was  in  what  he  left  unsaid ; and  chiefly  in  what 
he  left  unsaid  in  the  composition  of  utterly  incoherent 
paragraphs,  — paragraphs,  too,  and  sentences,  where 
nothing  could  have  done  his  work  but  utter  disregard 
of  unity.  And  literature  without  Heine  were  a poorer 
thing  than  the  literature  we  have  to-day.  Effects, 
after  all,  denotation  and  connotation  in  their  infinitely 


PARAGRAPHS,  149 

delicate  combinations,  are  what  the  writer  must  al- 
ways keep  in  mind. 

And  so,  in  leaving  this  subject  of  paragraphs,  we 
must  keep  in  mind  other  things  than  those  I have  laid 
down  so  dogmatically.  Generally  true  in  human 
practice,  these  by  themselves  are  not  enough  to  guide 
us.  They  are  generally  true  here  more  than  else- 
where, here  more  than  elsewhere  we  may  generally 
keep  them  in  mind,  because  alone  of  the  elements  of 
style  paragraphs  belong  to  written  composition,  and 
not  to  spoken.  But  in  written  composition,  just  as  in 
spoken,  what  the  maker  really  has  to  do  is  not  to  con- 
form to  any  rules  more  rigid  than  those  of  good  use ; 
it  is  to  know  what  effects  he  wishes  to  produce,  and 
then  by  every  means  in  his  power  to  strive  to  pro- 
duce them.  And  in  his  effort  to  know  what  effects 
he  would  produce,  the  maker  of  paragraphs  must  be 
just  as  careful  as  the  maker  of  sentences  or  the  chooser 
of  words  : he  must  know  not  only  what  he  would  say, 
but  what  he  would  leave  unsaid.  And  he  must  learn 
by  toilsome  practice  the  wonderful  subtilty  with  which, 
by  varying  his  kinds  of  paragraphs,  and  by  applying 
to  his  paragraphs  with  elastic  intelligence  the  broadly 
simple  principles  of  composition,  he  may  almost  in- 
finitely vary  his  effects,  in  denotation  and  in  con- 
notation alike. 


y. 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 

We  come  now  to  the  last  of  the  elements  of  style, — 
to  compositions  larger  than  paragraphs.  Of  course 
there  may  be  more  than  one  kind  of  these.  A chapter, 
a volume,  a book  in  several  volumes,  even  a series  of 
books  in  themselves  independent,  would  all  come 
under  this  head.  So  would  any  single  chapter  in  this 
book  I am  now  trying  to  compose  intelligibly,  and 
the  whole  book  itself.  But  for  our  purposes  all  these 
larger  forms  of  composition  may  be  considered  to- 
gether ; for  both  usage  and  principle  affect  them  all 
in  about  the  same  way. 

In  spite  of  their  familiarity,  we  shall  do  well  briefly 
to  glance  at  the  conclusions  we  have  already  reached. 
Style,  we  remember,  consists  primarily  of  words,  — 
arbitrary  sounds  to  which  the  common  consent  we 
call  “ good  use  ” has  given  definite  significance.  Before 
these  words  can  convey  any  organic  meaning  they 
must  be  composed  — put  together  — in  sentences.  In 
sentences,  grammar  and  idiom  — the  forms  in  which 
good  use  controls  composition  — are  extremely  power- 
ful; and  as  nothing  can  justify  a violation  of  good 
use,  our  composition  of  sentences  must  be  far  from 
arbitrary.  But  for  all  this,  the  moment  we  begin  to 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


151 


compose,  even  in  sentences,  we  have  found  that 
within  the  limits  of  good  use  we  may  wisely  govern 
our  work  by  certain  very  simple  principles  of  compo- 
sition. The  principle  of  Unity  counsels  that  each 
composition  be  grouped  about  one  central  idea;  the 
principle  of  Mass  counsels  that  the  chief  parts  of  every 
composition  be  so  placed  as  readily  to  catch  the  eye ; 
the  principle  of  Coherence  counsels  that  the  relation  of 
each  part  of  a composition  to  its  neighbors  be  unmis- 
takable. And  arbitrary  though  these  principles  seem, 
there  is  good  reason  to  think  that  the  common-sense 
of  English-speaking  people  has  in  a general  way  tended 
to  a growing,  though  hardly  a conscious,  observance 
of  them.  At  least,  I think  this  may  be  said  : a style 
whose  sentences  do  not  violate  these  principles  will 
generally  be  felt  a superior  vehicle  of  modern  thought 
and  emotion  to  a style  whose  sentences  neglect  them. 
In  paragraphs  we  found  good  use  greatly  relaxed. 
Without  fear  of  violating  either  grammar  or  idiom, 
we  found  ourselves  at  liberty  to  compose  our  para- 
graphs with  pretty  strict  attention  to  the  principles  ; 
and  some  years  of  practical  experience  have  con- 
vinced me  that  paragraphs  are  really  parts  of  com- 
position as  definitely  organic  and  quite  as  important 
as  sentences  themselves.  What  is  more,  having  es- 
caped the  authority  of  good  use,  they  are  parts  of  com- 
position which  any  one  who  knows  the  principles  may 
easily  make  conform  to  them,  often  with  surprising 
results. 

With  whole  compositions,  particularly  of  the  larger 


152  ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 

kinds,  the  case  is  somewhat  different.  In  the  nature 
of  things  they  are  apparent  at  a glance ; they  are  the 
most  conspicuous  things  in  style.  To  all  appearances, 
too,  they  are  things  of  the  most  various  kinds  : chap- 
ters, books,  volumes,  looked  at  in  one  way ; looked  at 
in  another,  essays,  sermons,  novels,  treatises,  poems, 
what  not  that  may  be  put  in  words.  At  different 
times  many  pretty  distinct  rules  have  been  laid  down 
about  them  in  some  of  their  phases.  Perhaps  the 
most  distinct  and  troublesome  concern  introductions 
and  conclusions,  or  things  more  awful  still,  which  the 
books  call  exordiums  and  perorations.  It  took  me  a 
good  while  to  find  out  that  the  principles  which  may 
best  govern  our  planning  of  whole  compositions  are 
simply  our  old  friends,  — the  principles  of  Unity,  of 
Mass,  and  of  Coherence ; and  that  compositions  care- 
fully planned  with  these  principles  in  view  will  in 
the  end  write  themselves  in  a form  incredibly  better 
than  compositions  in  which  the  principles  have  been 
neglected. 

As  in  paragraphs,  there  is  no  good  use  to  hamper 
us.  So  far  as  I know,  there  is  no  reason  whatever 
why  any  writer  should  not  cast  his  material  as  a whole 
in  any  form  he  may  choose  ; but  there  is  abundant 
reason  in  human  experience  why  he  should  not  cast 
his  material  in  any  form  at  all  until  he  has  carefully 
considered  it  and  pretty  carefully  constructed  the 
proper  mould.  And  this  is  exactly  what  any  one  who 
has  observed  the  normal  condition  of  the  human 
mind  would  expect. 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


153 


Order,  though  credibly  declared  the  first  law  of 
heaven,  is  by  no  means  the  rule  on  earth.  Our  ex- 
periences come  to  us  pell-mell.  Even  those  things 
in  life  which  possess  in  themselves  elements  of  the 
most  orderly  kind  — our  meals,  our  professional  work, 
our  devotions,  our  studies  — are  really,  in  experience, 
things  as  broken,  as  discontinuous,  as  confusingly 
intermingled  with  one  another  and  a thousand  things 
else  as  are  the  separate  instalments  of  a serial  story, 
— a kind  of  composition  that  most  of  us  leave  unread 
until  it  is  published  complete.  As  a result  of  this 
inevitable  fact  our  ideas  present  themselves  in  a state 
of  confusion.  Dozens  of  trains  of  thought  are  run- 
ning in  our  heads  at  all  times,  intermingling,  distort- 
ing one  another,  entangling  themselves  a great  deal 
more  than  any  one  who  does  not  sometimes  try  to 
disentangle  them  would  begin  to  suspect.  And  if  we 
try  to  express  ourselves  without  a pretty  definite  no- 
tion of  what  we  are  about,  we  are  fairly  sure  before 
long  to  find  ourselves  nowhere. 

The  easiest  way,  then,  to  approach  the  part  of  the 
subject  now  before  us  is,  I believe,  to  consider  how, 
if  we  have  to  say  something,  we  may  most  wisely  pro- 
ceed. A moment  ago  I used  a figure  which  goes  far 
toward  the  answer  of  this  question.  We  wish  to  cast 
our  thoughts  and  emotions  in  a form  which  shall 
make  them  intelligible  to  others  than  ourselves ; and 
whoever  would  cast  anything  into  any  form  must  first 
proceed  to  make  a mould. 

In  literal  words  this  means  that  a prudent  writer 


154 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


once  for  all  puts  aside  the  notion  that  he  is  inspired  ; 
and  with  it  the  traditional  attitude  of  the  poet  who 
nibbles  away  most  of  the  feathers  of  his  quill  before 
he  begins  to  wear  the  point.  No  matter  how  delicate 
our  purpose,  — even  though  we  contemplate  a master- 
piece of  literature,  — the  actual  task  before  us  is  a 
sober  matter  of  business ; and  like  any  matter  of 
business,  it  is  to  be  approached  by  a man  of  sense 
with  the  greatest  coolness  he  can  command. 

In  such  a case  as  this  a concrete  illustration  is  of 
far  more  value  than  any  amount  of  generalization ; 
and  an  illustration,  by  no  means  a model  in  other 
respects,  is  at  this  very  moment  before  us  all.  I shall 
ask  no  further  indulgence  for  speaking  now  of  the 
way  in  which  I have  tried  to  compose  these  chapters. 
My  effort  has  been  to  make  each  in  itself,  and  all  of 
them  taken  together,  a practical  illustration  of  the 
principles  that  I have  in  mind.  And  it  may  be  worth 
while  to  say  that  in  my  experience  as  a teacher,  and 
in  what  little  writing  I have  found  time  to  do,  the 
principles  that  apply  to  such  expository  compositions 
prove  exactly  the  same  that  apply  to  writing  of  any 
kind.  A narrative,  a description,  an  argument,  a 
play,  I find,  may  any  and  all  of  them  be  planned  in 
very  much  the  same  way. 

In  considering  these  chapters,  then,  — just  as  in 
planning  a biography  or  a novel,  — the  first  question 
that  presented  itself  concerned  the  substance  of  the 
matter  in  hand.  What  was  to  be  said ; and  more  im- 
portant still,  what  was  to  be  left  unsaid?  In  the 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


155 


present  state  of  human  intelligence,  I find  one  is  far 
more  apt  to  drag  in  needless,  useless,  even  irrelevant 
matter,  than  to  leave  out  matter  really  essential.  In 
answering  this  question,  I found,  and  I know  of,  no 
better  guide  than  the  old  principle  of  Unity.  Every 
composition  should  group  itself  about  one  central 
idea.  In  a sentence,  as  we  saw,  this  idea  is  some- 
times a single  word,  and  almost  always  a perfectly 
simple  assertion.  In  a paragraph  it  is  apt  to  be  a 
thing  which  phrases  itself  in  a larger  way : a para- 
graph, we  remember,  is  to  a sentence  what  a sentence 
is  to  a word ; and  just  as  the  centre  of  unity  in  a 
sentence  is  generally  a word,  so  the  centre  of  unity 
in  a paragraph  is  generally  a sentence.  In  a whole 
composition  — like  this  chapter,  or  the  series  of  which 
it  forms  a part  — the  scale  is  larger  still.  The  centre 
of  unity  may  generally  be  a thing  as  large  as  a para- 
graph ; but  if  we  are  to  have  a unity  that  is  any- 
thing more  than  chance,  a centre  of  unity,  and  a 
thoroughly  apprehended  one,  we  must  have.  In  dis- 
cussing paragraphs,  you  will  remember,  we  found  that 
the  most  convenient  test  of  unity  was  whether  we  could 
summarize  the  paragraph  in  a single  sentence.  In 
a whole  composition  the  most  convenient  test  of  unity 
is  whether  we  can  sum  up  its  substance  in  a single 
paragraph.  Once  for  all,  then,  in  composing  these 
chapters  I bound  myself  by  this  simple  condition : 
I resolved  that  no  one  of  them  should  contain  any- 
thing that  could  not  ultimately  be  included  in  a gen- 
eral summary  of  no  more  than  one  paragraph ; and 


156 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


what  is  more,  that  all  eight  of  the  chapters  that  com- 
pose this  book  should  themselves  contain  nothing 
that  could  not  ultimately  be  summarized  almost  as 
compactly. 

In  carrying  out  these  resolutions,  the  first  thing  to 
do  was  to  make  the  summaries  in  question.  Once 
made,  these  summaries  proved  guides  toward  further 
composition  whose  practical  value  it  would  be  hard 
to  overstate.  At  any  moment  there  was  close  at  hand 
a test  by  which  I could  judge  whether,  in  the  confu- 
sion of  thoughts  and  suggestions  that  must  come  to  any- 
body engaged  in  prolonged  literary  work,  I was  in  dan- 
ger of  straying  from  the  chief  matter  actually  in  hand. 

Of  course  no  one’s  foresight  is  perfect.  No  precon- 
ceived plan  I have  ever  happened  to  examine  has 
been  so  near  perfection  that  after-thought  may  not 
possibly  mend  it.  To  bind  one’s  self  hand  and  foot  by 
such  summaries  as  I have  mentioned  would  be  to  do 
a very  silly  thing.  The  intelligent  way  to  use  them 
is  to  use  them  as  guides,  rather  than  masters.  At 
least,  they  will  lead  us  somewhere,  and  will  prevent 
us  from  going  astray ; but  if  in  following  them,  we 
find  ourselves  by  and  by  in  a place  where  we  can  see 
a way  distinctly  better  than  that  in  which  they  lead 
us,  it  were  folly  not  to  discard  them  for  better  ones. 
Vagaries,  however,  are  not  as  a rule  perceptions  of 
better  ways;  they  are  generally  only  spontaneous 
manifestations  of  the  inexhaustible  power  of  human 
beings  to  do  things  as  things  should  not  be  done. 
And  when  I have  once  made  a summary,  I find  the 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


157 


wise  course  to  be  careful  adherence  to  it  until,  as 
happens  more  rarely  than  I could  wish,  I clearly  see 
my  way  to  the  making  of  a better. 

In  expository  or  argumentative  writing,  such  a pro- 
cess as  this  is  fairly  easy.  In  writing  of  a more  popu- 
lar and  apparently  lighter  kind,  it  is  sometimes  rather 
hard.  In  narrative,  for  example,  briefly  to  summarize 
the  whole  story  is  by  no  means  easy.  In  such  serious 
and  complex  narrative  as  a history,  such  a process 
may  become  almost  impracticable.  In  cases  like  this, 
however,  there  is  another  guide,  not  so  satisfactory, 
but  not  to  be  disdained.  A composition  whose  parts 
may  all  properly  fall  under  a single  definite  title  is 
pretty  sure  to  possess  unity ; and  here  is  one  of  the 
chief  reasons  why  I am  accustomed  to  urge  my  pupils 
to  give  their  compositions  titles  which,  as  nearly  as 
may  be,  shall  coincide  with  their  subjects. 

The  most  notable  example  of  unity  thus  demonstra- 
ble that  I have  lately  come  across  is  a book  so  long 
that  until  last  summer  I never  had  the  courage  to 
read  it.  I mean  Carlyle’s  “ Frederick  the  Great,”  — a 
work  which  comprises  a considerable  number  of  vol- 
umes and  twenty-one  distinct  books,  each  of  which 
is  subdivided  into  a number  of  chapters,  of  which 
most  are  in  turn  subdivided  into  separately  named 
sections.  The  edition  I read  in  the  spare  hours  of 
six  or  eight  weeks  was  printed  rather  closely  on  a 
page  containing,  I should  guess,  from  three  to  four 
hundred  words.  The  number  of  these  pages  was  in 
the  region  of  three  thousand;  and  the  matters  dis- 


158 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


cussed  therein  embraced  the  whole  recorded  history  of 
Brandenburg  and  of  the  House  of  Hohenzollern,  and 
pretty  much  everything  that  happened  in  Europe  dur- 
ing the,  first  three  quarters  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Sovereigns  from  Henry  the  Fowler  to  Catherine  the 
Second  crowded  on  us  pell-mell ; soldiers,  statesmen, 
buffoons,  peasants;  Voltaire,  and  Maria  Theresa,  and 
Augustus  of  Saxony,  and  all  four  Georges  of  Eng- 
land, and  two  or  three  Louises  of  France ; tobacco 
parliaments,  Silesian  wars,  Potsdam  millers,  scandals, 
heroisms,  schoolmasters,  apothecaries,  what  not  that 
whirled  about  in  this  world  of  ours  a century  or  two 
ago.  Such  a mass  of  living  facts  — for  somehow  Car- 
lyle never  lets  a fact  lack  life  — I had  never  seen  flung 
together  before ; and  yet  the  one  chief  impression  I 
brought  away  from  the  book  was  that  to  a degree 
rare  even  in  very  small  ones  it  possessed  as  a whole 
the  great  trait  of  unity.  In  one’s  memory,  each  fact 
by  and  by  fell  into  its  own  place . the  chief  ones  stood 
out ; the  lesser  sank  back  into  a confused  but  not  in- 
extricable mass  of  throbbing  vitality.  And  from  it  all 
emerged  more  and  more  clearly  the  one  central  figure 
who  gave  his  name  to  the  whole,  — Frederick  of  Prus- 
sia. It  was  as  they  bore  on  him  from  all  quarters  of 
time  and  space,  and  as  he  reacted  on  them  far  and 
wide,  that  all  these  events  and  all  these  people  were 
brought  back  out  of  their  dusty  graves  to  live  again. 
Whatever  else  Carlyle  was,  the  unity  of  this  enor- 
mous book  proves  him,  when  he  chose  to  be,  a Titanic 
artist. 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


159 


All  of  this  seems  perhaps  too  obvious  to  be  worth 
the  time  I have  already  given  it ; but  there  is 
a grave  reason  for  dwelling  on  it,  particularly  to 
English-speaking  people.  Although,  as  I have  said, 
there  is  in  the  matter  of  whole  composition  no  consent 
of  good  use  which  should  bind  us  to  anything,  there 
is,  naturally  enough,  more  general  consciousness  of 
what  the  great  people  have  done  on  a large  scale  than 
of  what  they  have  done  on  a small.  Now,  in  English 
literature  there  are  few  traits  more  generally  notable 
than  the  utter  disregard  of  form  permitted  themselves 
by  men  of  genius.  To  go  straight  to  the  greatest 
of  all,  I know  few  writers,  who,  in  whole  works, 
more  frequently  and  serenely  disregard  unity  than 
Shakspere.  Of  course  our  modern  impression  of 
Shakspere’s  form  is  distorted.  Few  popular  play- 
wrights become  established  classics ; it  is  both  un- 
fair and  unintelligent  to  judge  by  the  rules  of  the 
study  compositions  that  were  put  together  to  amuse 
an  audience  of  Elizabethan  Londoners.  And  very 
few  people  who  talk  about  Shakspere  ever  take  the 
trouble  to  read  the  great  body  of  dramatic  literature, 
with  conventions  and  methods  of  its  own,  of  which 
his  plays  form  in  bulk  a still  inconsiderable  part. 
But  after  making  all  allowances,  I am  disposed  to 
assent  to  the  criticism  Ben  Jonson  is  said  to  have 
uttered : that  Shakspere  wanted  art.  In  other  words, 
this  means  that  like  many  a popular  playwright 
since  his  day,  Shakspere  frequently  did  not  trouble 
himself  about  how  his  plays  were  put  together, 


160 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


so  long  as  they  would  act.  This  is  particularly 
true  of  his  chronicle-histories,  which,  like  other  plays 
of  the  same  class,  are  nothing  but  a casting  into 
dramatic  form  of  material  he  found  in  narrative. 
Scenes,  situations,  even  words  and  phrases,  are 
simply  put  into  such  shape  that  they  can  be  acted 
instead  of  read.  Now,  Shakspere  was,  above  any 
other  man  who  has  written  in  our  language,  a man 
of  genius.  It  seems  to  have  been  out  of  his  power  to 
write  a page  of  words  without  making  more  than  one 
phrase  which  should  ultimately  express  some  phase 
of  human  thought  or  passion ; and  even  in  the  most 
formless  of  his  histories  we  find  so  much  of  his 
power  that  few  of  us  care  to  think  of  anything  else. 
That  same  Ben  Jonson  who  criticised  him  was  a 
man  of  very  different  mould.  A great  scholar  in  his 
way,  perhaps  the  sturdiest  Englishman  of  his  day,  he 
had  not,  so  far  as  I can  see,  a spark  of  genius.  On 
the  other  hand,  his  industry  was  indefatigable,  and 
his  art  more  conscientious  than  that  of  any  other 
writer  of  his  time.  There  is  not  one  of  his  greater 
plays  which  does  not  command  the  conviction  that 
every  line  of  it  is  written  as  well  as  he  could  write  it. 
To  make  the  comparison  concrete,  both  Shakspere 
and  Ben  Jonson  wrote,  among  other  things,  plays 
which  presented  stories  from  Roman  history.  To  my 
thinking,  the  greatest  of  Shakspere’s  historical  plays 
is  “ Antony  and  Cleopatra ; ” each  time  I read  it  I am 
impressed  more  and  more  with  the  superhuman 
power  of  the  man  who  from  the  conventional  narra* 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


161 


tive  of  Plutarch  could  wake  into  eternal  vitality  the 
Romans  and  the  Greeks  and  the  Egyptians,  whose 
final  struggle  settled  the  fate  of  the  world.  Yet 
nothing  that  I have  read  in  this  play  or  of  it  can 
make  it  anything  to  me  but  a series  of  disjointed 
scenes,  preserved  from  incoherent  confusion  only  by 
the  transcendent  genius  of  the  man  who  wrote 
them.  The  greater  of  Ben  Jonson’s  historical  plays 
is  “ Sejanus.”  Nowadays  “ Sejanus  ” is  very  hard 
reading.  When  you  come  to  lines  like 

“ Sleep, 

Voluptuous  Caesar,  and  security 

Seize  on  thy  stupid  powers,  and  leave  them  dead 

To  public  cares,” 

you  breathe  a sigh  of  relief  in  the  midst  of  a flood  of 
verse  that  is  as  far  from  vital  as  even  the  lesser  lines 
of  “ Antony  and  Cleopatra”  are  far  from  lifeless.  But 
as  one  begins  to  study  “ Sejanus,”  one  begins  to  see 
that  of  the  two  it  is  the  safer  model.  From  begin- 
ning to  end  every  stroke  is  part  of  a preconceived  and 
complete  whole.  Thoughtful,  laborious,  uninspired, 
but  never  reckless,  never  for  an  instant  forgetful  of 
the  conscience  of  an  artist,  Ben  Jonson  has,  after  all, 
with  what  power  was  in  him,  done  a great  work ; 
and  Shakspere’s  work  could  not  help  being  great. 

Now,  most  of  us  are  not  great  enough  to  disdain 
rule  and  principle  and  conscience  ; nor  are  most  of 
us  intelligent  enough  to  understand  that  Shakspere  is 
great  in  spite  of  his  faults,  just  as  in  their  own  lesser 

11 


162 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


ways  are  Dickens  and  Thackeray.  Because  genius 
lias  in  their  case  atoned  for  lack  of  careful  art,  we 
are  very  prone  to  call  art  worthless  and  narrowing 
and  what  not;  and  as  a result  we  take  comforta- 
bly little  pains,  and  let  our  faults  shelter  themselves 
under  the  shadow  of  the  faults  of  masters.  If  we 
have  genius,  well  and  good ; if  not,  as  is  the  case 
with  most  of  us,  we  simply  come  to  grief. 

Of  course,  I need  hardly  repeat,  we  may  legitimately 
have  in  view  other  effects  than  unity.  If  our  object 
be  to  ramble,  then  not  to  ramble  were  to  blunder ; 
but  in  general  our  object  is  to  produce  a definite 
effect  and  not  a nebulous.  And  in  broadly  general 
considerations  of  such  a matter  as  this,  it  is  safest 
to  assume  this  general  object.  In  planning  our  com- 
positions, then,  there  is  nothing  else  quite  so  impor- 
tant as  a constant,  conscious  determination  that  they 
shall  contain  what  belongs  there,  and  nothing  else ; 
that,  if  any  work  of  ours  can  make  them,  they  shall 
group  themselves  about  one  central  idea,  — that  they 
shall  have  unity. 

So  much  for  the  substance  of  our  whole  composi- 
tions. The  next  question  that  presents  itself  is  how, 
in  a very  broad  way,  we  should  arrange  it.  In  the 
smaller  compositions  we  have  considered,  in  sentences 
and  paragraphs,  this  consideration  was  at  first  glance 
by  no  means  obvious.  In  large  compositions,  I think 
it  becomes  very  obvious  indeed.  We  have  in  our 
possession  certain  definite  materials.  Our  object  is 
so  to  compose  these  materials  that  a reader  shall  be 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


163 


able  to  possess  himself  of  them  too  ; and  this,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  we  must  first  do  in  a general  way. 
We  have  a story  to  tell,  for  example ; in  what  order 
shall  the  incidents  be  narrated  ? If  the  story  be  a 
long  one,  there  must  probably  be  many  shifts  of  scene. 
What  scenes  shall  we  choose  to  dwell  on,  what  shall 
we  describe  directly,  what  indirectly  ? How  shall 
each  be  treated?  To  propose  a concrete  example, 
suppose  we  are  telling  a story,  historical  or  ficti- 
tious, in  which  one  of  the  incidents  is  the  first  battle 
of  Bull  Run.  Shall  we  describe  it  in  detail,  as  Carlyle 
describes  the  battles  of  Frederick,  and  Tolstoi  the 
battles  of  Napoleon’s  wars  in  Russia ; or  shall  we 
keep  it  in  the  background,  as  Thackeray  keeps  Water- 
loo in  “Vanity  Fair”?  At  this  moment  I do  not 
recall  a notable  literary  account  of  the  battle  in 
question.  The  incidents  of  that  field  are  a matter  of 
recorded  fact,  within  reach  of  any  historian.  Should 
the  historian  take  us  straight  to  the  battlefield,  and 
tell  what  went  on  there,  hour  after  hour,  and  so  fol- 
low as  far  as  he  can  the  exact  course  of  events  from 
the  first  engagement  to  the  final  defeat  ? Or  should 
he  take  us  to  Washington,  and  tell  how  the  troops 
marched  out  and  how  all  manner  of  rumors  began 
to  come  in,  now  of  victory,  now  of  rout,  until  finally 
stragglers  in  mad  retreat  brought  the  confused  cer- 
tainty of  defeat  to  the  frightened  capital  ? Either 
method  would  be  perfectly  legitimate ; so  would  a 
combination  of  both.  The  question  really  is  what 
effect  we  have  in  mind. 


164 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


Again,  suppose,  as  is  perhaps  more  often  the  case, 
that  our  object  be  to  write  an  argument,  to  convince 
people  that  our  way  of  looking  at  a given  state  of 
things  is  the  sane  one.  Argument  conveniently  di- 
vides itself  into  two  parts,  — premises  and  conclusion, 
or,  as  the  Rhetorics  phrase  it,  proof  and  proposition. 
We  have  some  definite  thing  to  maintain,  — our  con- 
clusion or  proposition  ; and  we  show  why  we  maintain 
it  by  definitely  stated  reasons,  which  we  call  premises 
or  proof.  In  what  order  should  we  present  this 
matter  ? Should  we  begin  by  stating  our  proposition, 
and  then  collect  the  proof  in  the  strongest  order  in 
which  we  can  marshal  it ; or  should  we  begin  by 
collecting  our  proof,  and  so  lead  up  to  a final  state- 
ment of  our  proposition  ? Again,  either  method  is 
legitimate,  and  so  are  combinations  of  both.  In  this 
case,  indeed,  the  general  question  of  composition  be- 
comes to  a great  degree  a question  of  tact.  Abruptly 
to  state  a proposition  with  which  readers  would  be 
apt  to  disagree  is  unwise,  for  much  the  reason  that 
makes  unwise  any  act  of  deliberately  unpopular  be- 
havior. Needlessly  to  keep  back  a proposition  which 
commands  general  assent  is  often  equally  unwise, 
partly  because  it  needlessly  puts  off  one  of  the  bonds 
of  sympathy  that  may  be  formed  between  writer  and 
reader.  As  in  narrative,  the  question  reduces  itself  to 
a deliberate  consideration  of  what  effect  we  have  in 
mind. 

In  my  teaching  I have  found  one  purely  mechanical 
device  of  much  value  here.  Whatever  our  object, 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


165 


whatever  kind  of  writing  we  undertake,  and  on  what- 
ever scale,  our  work  must  inevitably  divide  itself  into 
certain  separate  parts.  Our  books  must  fall  into 
chapters,  our  chapters  or  single  essays  into  paragraphs. 
What  shall  those  parts  be  ? is  the  question ; in  what 
order  shall  they  be  arranged  ? The  simplest  way  I 
have  found  of  answering  these  questions  is  this  : On 
separate  bits  of  paper — cards,  if  they  be  at  hand  — 
I write  down  the  separate  headings  that  occur  to  me, 
in  what  seems  to  me  the  natural  order.  Then,  when 
my  little  pack  of  cards  is  complete,  — in  other  words, 
when  I have  a card  for  every  heading  which  I think 
of,  — I study  them  and  sort  them  almost  as  deliber- 
ately as  I should  sort  a hand  at  whist;  and  it  has 
very  rarely  been  my  experience  to  find  that  a shift  of 
arrangement  will  not  decidedly  improve  the  original 
order.  Ideas  that  really  stand  in  the  relation  of  proof 
to  proposition  frequently  present  themselves  as  co- 
ordinate. The  same  idea  will  sometimes  phrase  itself 
in  two  or  three  distinct  ways,  whose  superficial  dif- 
ferences for  the  moment  conceal  their  identity ; and 
more  frequently  still,  the  comparative  strength  and 
importance,  and  the  mutual  relations,  of  really  distinct 
ideas  will  in  the  first  act  of  composition  curiously 
conceal  themselves  from  the  writer.  A few  minutes’ 
shuffling  of  these  little  cards  has  often  revealed  to  me 
more  than  I should  have  learned  by  hours  of  unaided 
pondering.  In  brief,  they  enable  one,  by  simple  acts 
of  rearrangement,  to  make  any  number  of  fresh  plans. 
If  the  first  plan  be  drawn  out  on  a single  page,  every 


166 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


new  one  must  be  written  afresh.  Mechanical  as  the 
device  is,  I find  it  most  serviceable. 

In  the  stage  of  composition  at  which  we  have  now 
arrived,  the  general  principle  which  should  guide  our 
conduct  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  our  old  friend, 
the  principle  of  Mass.  Generally  speaking,  the  chief 
parts  of  any  composition  should  be  so  placed  as  readily 
to  catch  the  eye.  In  compositions  on  a scale  so  large 
as  that  of  wholes  there  are  three  distinct  things  that 
must  inevitably  catch  the  eye : two  are  what  must 
catch  the  eye  even  in  sentences, — the  beginning  and 
the  end ; the  third  is  what  we  saw  beginning  to  appear 
in  paragraphs,  — the  comparative  space  devoted  to  the 
different  parts  of  the  matter  in  hand.  These  I shall 
consider  in  turn. 

The  beginning  of  any  composition  may  wisely,  I 
think,  indicate  what  the  composition  is  about.  Com- 
pare, for  example,  the  opening  sentences  of  two  stand- 
ard histories  of  England,  Hume’s  and  Macaulay’s. 

“ The  curiosity,  entertained  by  all  civilized  nations,” 
begins  Hume,  “ of  inquiry  into  the  exploits  and  adven- 
tures of  their  ancestors  commonly  excites  a regret  that 
the  history  of  remote  ages  should  always  be  so  much 
involved  in  obscurity,  uncertainty,  and  contradiction.” 

And  so  on  for  a page,  in  my  edition,  before  he 
begins  to  tell  what  he  purposes  to  do. 

“ I purpose,”  begins  Macaulay,  “ to  write  the  history  of 
England  from  the  accession  of  King  James  the  Second  down 
to  a time  which  is  within  the  memory  of  men  still  living.” 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


167 


And  so  on,  for  a page  or  two,  distinctly  laying 
down  the  plan  of  the  great  work  he  never  finished. 
No  one,  I think,  can  question  the  superior  efficacy 
of  Macaulay’s  method.  Again,  compare  with  the 
opening  of  almost  any  respectable  modern  novel 
the  opening  pages  of  those  generally  much  more 
notable  pieces  of  fiction,  the  novels  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott.  There  may  be  living  occasional  individuals 
who  have  resisted  the  impulse  to  skip  the  endless 
lucubrations  of  Dryasdust  and  what  not ; but  I do 
not  remember  having  met  one.  The  fact  is  that  there 
was  once  a formal  old  fashion,  pretty  generally  ob- 
served, of  beginning  any  piece  of  writing  by  a lot  of 
more  or  less  commonplace  generalization ; and  that 
modern  writers  have  begun  to  find  out  that  such  pas- 
sages are  a waste  of  good  ink  and  paper,  inasmuch  as 
hardly  anybody  has  ever  been  known  to  read  them. 
As  a matter  of  fact,  too,  most  people  have  a very 
strong  impulse  to  preface  something  in  particular  by 
at  least  a paragraph  of  nothing  in  particular,  bearing 
to  the  real  matter  in  hand  a relation  not  more  inher- 
ently intimate  than  that  of  the  tuning  of  violins  to  a 
symphony.  It  is  the  mechanical  misfortune  of  musi- 
cians that  they  cannot  with  certainty  tune  their  in- 
struments out  of  hearing.  It  is  the  mechanical  luck 
of  the  writer  that  he  need  not  show  a bit  more  of  his 
work  than  he  chooses.  As  a teacher,  my  most  fre- 
quent experience  is  the  striking  out  of  the  first  page 
or  so  of  a student’s  compositions ; as  a writer,  so  far 
as  my  experience  has  gone,  I have  almost  always  forced 


168 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


myself  ruthlessly  to  destroy  the  original  beginnings  of 
whatever  I have  written ; and  this  just  because  these 
spontaneous  beginnings  involve  a needless  disregard 
of  the  principle  of  Mass,  so  serious  as  greatly  to  im- 
pair the  actual  effect  a writer  has  in  view. 

So  much  for  the  principle  of  Mass  as  it  applies  to 
the  beginnings  of  whole  compositions.  Its  application 
to  their  close  is  very  similar.  Whoever  does  not  take 
deliberate  care  is  very  apt  to  go  on  writing  and  talking 
after  he  has  really  said  his  say.  Physical  fatigue 
sometimes  comes  to  his  rescue  here ; but  not  so  often 
as  you  would  expect.  Yet  a weak  ending  is  in  final 
effect  a more  fatal  thing  than  a weak  beginning.  It 
is,  in  brief,  anti-climax  at  its  worst,  — the  most  false 
of  false  emphasis.  Whoever  has  listened  to  after- 
dinner  speaking  knows  this  from  bitter  experience. 
If  there  is  anything  more  utterly  depressing  than  a 
speech  which  begins  flatly,  it  is  one  that  begins  well 
and  ends  with  dreary  commonplace.  If  the  case  is  not 
quite  so  palpable  in  print,  it  is  just  as  true.  More 
than  anywhere  else,  we  should  keep  in  mind  concern- 
ing our  whole  compositions  that  if  they  are  to  have 
on  the  reader  the  effect  we  wish  to  produce,  they  must 
end  with  words  that  deserve  distinction. 

Here,  too,  as  a teacher  I have  often  found  my  prac- 
tical work  taking  the  form  of  amputation.  It  is  far 
more  common  to  find  the  best  end  of  a composition 
imbedded  in  what  at  first  glance  looks  like  the  body 
thereof  than  not  to  find  it  at  all ; and  when  you  appre- 
ciate that  a given  piece  of  writing  ends  weakly,  you  will 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


169 


do  well,  before  trying  to  alter  it,  to  make  sure  that  there 
is  not  already  in  it  some  point  where  it  may  actually 
end  strongly.  But  the  rule  tells  the  whole  story.  I 
have  yet  to  find  the  composition  that  may  not  to 
advantage  end  with  words  that  deserve  distinction. 

So  we  come  to  the  third  phase  of  the  principle  of 
Mass  in  whole  compositions.  In  the  textbooks  I have 
found  this  somewhat  dryly  formulated  thus  : Due  pro- 
portion should  obtain  between  principal  and  subordi- 
nate matters.  In  simple  English  I conceive  this  to 
mean  that,  generally  speaking,  what  is  most  important 
may  conveniently  be  treated  at  most  length.  In  bi- 
ography, for  example,  — a kind  of  writing  that  students 
often  have  to  try,  — the  first  question  is  why  the  sub- 
ject is  worth  writing  about  at  all.  During  the  past  ten 
years  it  has  been  my  misfortune  to  read,  I should 
guess,  from  five  hundred  to  a thousand  undergraduate 
accounts  of  the  life  of  Daniel  Webster.  Now,  Webster, 
I conceive,  is  worth  writing  about  for  three  different 
reasons  : he  was  a great  orator,  and  a very  notable 
lawyer,  and  a great  statesman.  Any  or  all  of  these 
phases  of  his  character  might  properly  occupy  the 
greater  part  of  any  account  of  his  life.  But  what  in 
my  opinion  should  be  passed  over  hastily  is  what  in 
a great  number  of  the  undergraduate  compositions  is 
treated  at  the  greatest  length ; namely,  the  not  very 
exceptional  circumstances  of  his  childhood  and  youth. 
I remember  one  theme  which  covered  perhaps  a dozen 
pages  of  carefully  written  manuscript,  of  which  all 
but  two  were  devoted  to  an  elaborate  account  — re- 


170 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


ferred  to  no  recognized  authority  — of  how  the  infant 
Daniel,  engaged  in  ploughing  with  his  father,  plied 
the  old  gentleman  with  many  edifying  questions  con- 
cerning the  rights  and  duties  of  American  citizens, 
and  received  answers  that  might  have  been  copied 
from  “ Sandford  and  Merton.”  I remember  another 
theme,  entitled  “ John  the  Baptist,”  which  told  of 
nothing  but  the  extremely  picturesque  and  very 
highly  colored  misconduct  of  Herod.  And  only  a 
short  time  ago  I had  occasion  to  study  a life  of  Sir 
Richard  Steele,  in  which  a great  many  pages  were 
devoted  to  discussions  — illustrated  by  legal  docu- 
ments quoted  at  length  — as  to  who  were,  and  who 
were  not,  related  to  his  wives.  Yet  really  what  a 
reader  wanted  to  know  in  each  of  these  cases  — 
really,  I think,  what  the  writer  wished  to  tell  — was 
why  Webster,  or  John  the  Baptist,  or  Steele,  was  worth 
the  attention  we  were  called  upon  to  give  him. 

Of  course,  even  in  writing  of  this  kind,  our  purpose 
may  be  different  from  the  general  one.  Last  year  I 
read  a Life  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  by  a Mr.  Herndon 
who  was  an  intimate  friend  of  his  in  early  life. 
Whether  Herndon’s  book  is  authentic  or  not,  I do 
not  pretend  to  decide.  It  purports  to  give  an  as- 
tonishingly complete  account  of  what  Lincoln  did 
and  what  manner  of  world  he  lived  in  up  to  the  time 
when  he  emerged  into  the  sight  of  the  nation.  It 
purports,  indeed,  to  tell  the  whole  story  of  his  life ; 
but  after  Lincoln  was  in  national  politics,  Herndon  saw 
and  knew  comparatively  little  of  him,  and  other  people 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


171 


saw  and  knew  a great  deal.  Of  Herndon’s  three  vol 
umes,  then,  almost  if  not  quite  two  are  devoted  to  the 
earlier  part  of  Lincoln’s  career.  Into  the  third  voh 
ume  is  compressed,  in  very  general  form,  all  that  makes 
Lincoln’s  name  a household  word  ; but  this  massing 
of  Herndon’s  book,  far  from  being  faulty,  seems  to  me 
admirable.  What  Herndon  had  to  tell,  what  nobody 
else  knew,  was  precisely  that  personal  detail  of  early 
life  which  the  other  books  and  other  writers,  for  want 
of  knowledge,  passed  over.  A truer  title  would  have 
been  the  “ Early  Life  of  Lincoln.”  A better  book 
might  have  ended  at  the  moment  when  Lincoln  be- 
came a public  character.  But,  given  Herndon’s  pur- 
pose, Herndon’s  book  is,  in  its  main  masses,  very  well 
composed,  for  the  very  reason  that  it  gives  most  space, 
and  so  attracts  most  notice,  to  what  most  deserves 
distinction. 

An  interesting  composition  from  this  point  of  view 
is  the  chapter  in  “ Y anity  Fair  ” which  tells  of  the  battle 
of  Waterloo.  In  point  of  fact,  I rather  think  Thack- 
eray had  never  seen  a great  battle,  and  was  too  prudent 
an  artist  to  venture  on  the  description  of  a very  no- 
table kind  of  thing  which  he  knew  only  from  hearsay. 
He  lays  his  scene  in  Brussels,  then,  and  tells  with 
great  vividness  and  detail  the  story  of  the  panic  there, 
— not  essentially  a different  thing  from  any  other 
scene  of  general  excitement  and  confusion  and  terror ; 
a great  deal  nearer  the  ordinary  experience  of  human 
beings  than  any  form  of  battle,  murder,  or  sudden 
death.  But  he  never  lets  you  forget  that  what  has 


172 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


made  this  panic  is  Waterloo  : every  now  and  then  you 
hear  the  growling  of  the  cannon,  and  feel,  hovering 
not  far  off,  the  dreadful  shadow  of  Bonaparte.  So  — 
in  my  little  Tauchnitz  edition  — he  writes  for  twenty- 
two  pages,  dwelling  at  greatest  length  on  that  part  of 
his  subject  which  he  was  best  able  to  treat,  and  leav- 
ing in  the  reader’s  mind  — what  every  writer  really 
wishes  to  leave  there  — a deep  sense  of  reality  and  of 
power.  But  this  has  not  told  his  whole  story.  In 
the  last  page  and  a half  he  tells  very  briefly  what  had 
been  doing  in  the  field  all  this  time ; and  in  his  very 
last  paragraph  — and  the  very  last  words  of  it  — he 
tells  the  fact  which  makes  the  passage  an  essential 
part  of  his  story.  Here  is  the  paragraph,  and  it  is 
so  placed  that  in  the  total  effect  of  the  chapter  it 
remains  the  chief  point  of  the  whole : — 

“No  more  firing  was  heard  at  Brussels:  the  pursuit 
rolled  miles  away.  The  darkness  came  down  on  the  field 
and  city ; and  Amelia  was  praying  for  George,  who  was 
lying  on  his  face,  dead,  with  a bullet  through  his  heart.” 

For  skilful  massing  that  chapter  has  always  im- 
pressed me  as  notable.  It  is  the  space  given  to  Brus- 
sels that  emphasizes  the  part  of  the  story  which 
Thackeray  could  tell  best;  it  is  the  placing  of  that 
single  sentence  about  George  Osborne  — not  even  a 
sentence,  only  a relative  clause — which  leaves  it  once 
for  all  inevitably  in  the  reader’s  memory. 

In  whole  compositions,  then,  the  question  of  mass 
— of  how  we  should  begin,  how  end,  how  arrange  the 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


1T3 


proportions  of  our  work  — becomes  more  important 
and  more  delicate  than  before.  On  our  management 
of  it  depends  to  an  amazing  degree  what  effects  we 
produce  with  given  material.  It  cannot  be  considered 
too  carefully.  And  nothing  has  so  assisted  my  con  - 
sideration of  it  as  that  simple  device  with  cards  that 
show  me,  as  I arrange  them  in  different  orders, 
what  different  effects  are  at  any  moment  within  my 
power. 

So  we  come  to  the  principle  of  Coherence : that  the 
relation  of  each  part  of  a composition  to  its  neighbors 
should  be  unmistakable.  In  sentences  and  in  para- 
graphs, we  shall  remember,  we  found  that  this  matter 
of  coherence  depended  on  one  or  more  of  three  de- 
vices : the  actual  order  in  which  we  arranged  the  parts 
of  our  compositions;  uniformity  of  constructions;  and 
the  use  of  connectives.  In  whole  compositions  these 
three  devices  remain  important ; but  the  first  and  the 
third  are  more  so  than  the  second.  The  simplest  way 
of  considering  them,  perhaps,  is  to  revert  to  the  lit- 
tle packs  of  cards  that  I have  said  are  so  useful  in 
deciding  questions  of  mass.  In  arranging  these  it 
is  not  enough  that  we  should  give  most  space  to 
what  we  wish  most  to  impress  on  the  reader,  or  put 
at  the  beginning  and  the  end  the  matters  we  wish 
chiefly  to  emphasize.  It  is  almost  equally  important 
that  we  arrange  the  separate  parts  of  our  composi- 
tions — in  this  case,  the  separate  paragraphs  — in  an 
order  that  shall  as  far  as  possible  indicate  their 
mutual  relations. 


174 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


In  certain  kinds  of  writing,  this  mere  arrangement 
will  assure  all  the  coherence  that  is  necessary.  In  a 
novel,  for  example,  or  a simple  historical  narrative,  it 
is  often  enough  to  arrange  the  parts  that  make  up  the 
whole  in  such  order  that  each  naturally  leads  from 
the  last  to  the  next ; but  whenever  one  gets  into  a 
kind  of  composition  where  one  cannot  move  straight 
ahead,  — where  one  must  gather  together  more  than 
one  thread  of  discourse,  — other  devices  become 
necessary. 

The  device  of  parallel  construction  is  at  once  less 
useful  and  more  dangerous  in  whole  compositions 
than  in  paragraphs.  It  is  less  useful  because  it  is  not 
nearly  so  perceptible ; more  dangerous  because,  if  it 
is  perceptible,  it  is  apt  to  be  more  palpably  artificial. 
And  yet  complete  disregard  of  it  may  be  decidedly 
confusing  in  effect.  An  article  in  a magazine  that  I 
lately  glanced  through  will  show  what  I mean.  On 
the  page  where  I happened  to  open  the  book  I ob- 
served two  paragraphs  : “ Thirdly,”  began  one,  “ we 
believe  this  to  be  the  case  because,”  — and  so  on. 
“Fourthly,”  and  so  on,  began  the  next.  Some- 
thing in  the  text  caught  my  attention.  I turned 
back  a page  or  two,  in  hopes  of  finding  what  the 
first  and  second  headings  were.  But  though  beyond 
doubt  there  were  first  and  second  headings  some- 
where, they  were  never  so  described,  nor,  if  there 
were  such  things  in  the  article  in  question,  were  any 
headings  after  the  fourth.  These  two  paragraphs  on 
which  my  eye  happened  first  to  fall  chanced  to  stand 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


1T5 


in  just  the  same  relation  to  the  main  proposition,  and 
so  were  cast  in  a form  superficially  similar,  and  so 
were  coherent  in  construction.  But  there  were  other 
paragraphs  that  by  the  very  terms  that  demonstrated 
the  coherence  of  these  — “ thirdly  ” and  “ fourthly  ” — 
must  inevitably  stand  in  just  their  relation  to  the  main 
proposition ; and  the  very  change  of  construction 
which  made  them  hard  to  find  when  I looked  back  to 
them  made  them  hard  to  recognize  in  exactly  their 
true  character  when  I read  the  article  straight  for- 
ward. In  such  a series  as  I suggest  here,  perhaps 
the  value  of  coherence  in  the  constructions  of  whole 
compositions  is  most  apparent.  To  phrase  each  of 
these  separate  headings  in  a notably  similar  way 
might  well  have  been  to  grow  palpably  monotonous. 
To  introduce  each  of  them  by  its  regular  title  — 
“first,”  “secondly,”  and  so  on — would  certainly  have 
gone  a long  way  to  obviate  any  other  device  for  the 
securing  of  coherence. 

And  yet  in  the  most  finished  models  of  composition 
such  coherence  as  I have  just  suggested  is  discarded 
as  too  palpable.  One  of  the  most  finished  bits  of 
composition  I know  is  the  passage  from  Burke’s 
speech  on  Conciliation  with  America,  which  discusses 
the  temper  and  character  of  America.  At  this  point, 
it  is  worth  analyzing  in  some  detail:  “ In  this  charac- 
ter of  the  Americans,”  it  begins,  “ a love  of  freedom 
is  the  predominating  feature,  . . . and  this  from  a 
great  variety  of  powerful  causes.”  “ First,”  begins  the 
next  paragraph,  “ the  people  of  the  colonies  are  de- 


176 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


scendants  of  Englishmen.  England,  sir,  is  a nation 
which  still,  I hope,  respects,  and  formerly  adored  her 
freedom,”  and  so  on  for  more  than  a page.  “ They 
were  further  confirmed  in  this  pleasing  error,”  begins 
the  next  paragraph,  — which  might  have  begun  “ sec- 
ondly,” — “ by  the  form  of  their  provincial  legislative 
assemblies.  Their  governments  are  popular  in  a high 
degree.”  And  this,  too,  he  develops  a little.  “ If 
anything  were  wanting  to  this  necessary  operation 
of  the  form  of  government,”  comes  instead  of 
“ thirdly,”  “ religion  would  have  given  it  a complete 
effect.  . . . The  religion  most  prevalent  in  our  north- 
ern colonies  is  a refinement  on  the  principle  of  resist- 
ance ; it  is  the  dissidence  of  dissent,  and  the 
Protestantism  of  the  Protestant  religion.”  And  there 
is  well  on  to  a page  of  this.  “ Sir,”  begins  the  next 
paragraph,  — which  might  have  begun  “ fourthly,”  — 
“ I can  perceive  that  some  gentlemen  object  to  the  lati- 
tude of  this  description,  because  in  the  southern  colo- 
nies the  Church  of  England  forms  a large  body,  and 
has  a regular  establishment.  . . . There  is,  however,  a 
circumstance  attending  these  colonies  which,  in  my 
opinion,  fully  counterbalances  this  difference.  ...  It 
is  that  in  Virginia  and  the  Carolinas  they  have  a vast 
multitude  of  slaves.  . . . Freedom  is  to  them  not  only 
an  enjoyment,  but  a kind  of  rank  and  privilege.” 
And  so  on  for  half  a page  more.  “ Permit  me, 
sir,”  — instead  of  “ fifthly,”  — begins  the  next  para- 
graph, “ to  add  another  circumstance  in  our  colonies, 
which  contributes  no  mean  part  towards  the  growth 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


177 


and  effect  of  this  intractable  spirit.  I mean  their  edu- 
cation. In  no  country,  perhaps,  in  the  world  is  the 
law  so  general  a study.”  “ They  augur  misgovern- 
ment  at  a distance,”  the  paragraph  closes,  “ and  snuff 
the  approach  of  tyranny  in  every  tainted  breeze.” 
“ The  last  cause  of  this  disobedient  spirit  in  the  colo- 
nies,” begins  the  sixth  paragraph,  “ is  hardly  less  pow- 
erful than  the  rest,  as  it  is  not  merely  moral,  but  laid 
deep  in  the  natural  constitution  of  things.  Three 
thousand  miles  of  ocean  lie  between  you  and  them.” 
And  so  on  for  a page  more.  His  enumeration  of 
the  causes  of  American  love  of  freedom  is  now 
complete. 

Burke’s  business  now  is  to  proceed  further  in  his 
speech,  — to  discuss  what  conduct  should  be  pursued 
toward  a people  whose  chief  characteristic  he  has  thus 
defined  and  explained.  But  this  definition  and  ex- 
planation, which,  even  as  I have  mutilated  it,  is  not 
precisely  brief,  has  filled,  in  the  edition  from  which 
I quote,  almost  six  closely  printed  pages.  And  it  is 
highly  desirable  that  it  should  be  finally  presented  in 
a form  so  compact  that  a reasonably  attentive  listener 
may  rationally  be  hoped  to  keep  it  completely  in 
mind.  Before  proceeding  with  his  discourse,  then, 
Burke  gives  a short  paragraph  to  a deliberate  sum- 
mary of  these  last  six.  “ Then,  sir,”  he  says,  “ from 
these  six  capital  sources,  — of  descent ; of  form  of  gov- 
ernment ; of  religion  in  the  northern  provinces ; of 
manners  in  the  southern ; of  education ; of  remote- 
ness of  situation  from  the  first  source  of  govern- 

12 


178 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


ment,  — from  all  these  causes  a fine  spirit  of  liberty 
has  grown  up.” 

Mutilated  as  my  citations  from  this  passage  have 
inevitably  been,  they  are  enough,  I hope,  to  show 
pretty  clearly  two  of  the  devices  by  which  Burke  — 
one  of  the  most  coherent  writers  in  English  litera- 
ture — gives  coherence  to  his  style.  From  point  to 
point  of  the  six  heads  by  which  he  accounts  for  the 
fine  spirit  of  American  liberty  that  just  four  weeks 
later  burst  into  open  rebellion  at  Lexington  and  Con- 
cord, he  marks  his  transitions  with  a care  which 
makes  impossible  the  slightest  misapprehension  of 
their  nature.  Though  we  may  sometimes  forget 
whence  we  have  come  or  whither  we  are  going, 
there  is  never  a moment  when  we  can  doubt  where 
we  are.  Every  transition  is  as  carefully  defined  as 
every  point.  In  the  second  place,  when  he  has 
reached  a point  where  a summary  is  practicable,  he 
summarizes  what  he  has  said  in  the  order  in  which 
he  has  said  it;  and  his  summary,  gathering  up  in 
a single  sentence  the  matter  that  he  has  impressed 
on  our  minds  by  expanding  it  into  six  full  para- 
graphs, leaves  it  with  us  in  a form  where  we  can 
finally  grasp  it  as  a whole,  and  in  full  possession 
of  it  proceed  to  a consideration  of  the  further  matter 
that  he  must  lay  before  us. 

In  coherence  of  whole  compositions  these  two 
devices  — definitely  marked  transitions  and  carefully 
placed  summaries  — do  precisely  what  in  the  cohe- 
rence of  shorter  compositions  is  done  by  simple 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS.  179 

connectives.  They  specify  in  a way  which  no  man 
can  mistake  the  exact  relation  of  part  to  part. 

In  some  degree  — in  this  speech  of  Burke’s  to  a 
great  degree  — this  careful  attention  to  coherence 
involves,  and  rightly,  a disregard  of  the  strict  prin- 
ciple of  Mass.  At  the  beginning  of  almost  every 
one  of  his  paragraphs  we  have  not  a word  or  phrase 
which  is  in  itself  significant,  but  one  which  indicates 
unmistakably  the  relation  of  what  is  to  come  to  what 
has  gone  before.  Undue  emphasis,  this  may  seem,  on 
what  is  essentially  unimportant ; and  yet  from  an- 
other point  of  view  it  is  perhaps  defensible  on  the 
very  ground  of  emphasis.  To  know  the  bearing  of 
what  we  are  about  to  consider  on  what  we  have 
already  grasped  is  often  quite  as  important  as  to 
understand  precisely  what  the  thing  we  are  about 
to  grasp  may  be.  In  those  paragraphs  of  Burke’s 
which  begin  with  simple  connectives,  the  chief  sen- 
tences, when  we  get  to  them,  are  generally  massed 
to  perfection.  Take,  for  example,  that  famous  one 
about  “ the  dissidence  of  dissent,  the  Protestantism 
of  the  Protestant  religion.”  No  one  ever  forgot 
what  that  meant.  I know  of  no  passage  in  Eng- 
lish better  worth  studying  as  an  example  of  the 
comparative  value  of  the  principles  of  Mass  and  of 
Coherence,  and  of  the  inevitable  necessity  of  com- 
promise between  them ; nor  any  either,  which  more 
instantly  demonstrates  the  great  value  of  a final 
summary. 

To  come  down  to  every-day  matters,  the  precise  les- 


180 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


son  which  one  learns  from  such  models  as  this  is  of 
great  value  when  we  come  to  write  out  the  composi- 
tions whose  unity  and  mass  we  have  settled  by  some 
such  device  as  the  separate  headings  on  separate  cards. 
Once  arranged  in  its  general  outline*  a composition 
must  of  course  be  finished  in  detail.  If  we  have 
made  our  plans  with  minute  care,  each  of  our  head- 
ings may  properly  be  expanded  into  a paragraph. 
How  should  that  paragraph  begin,  how  proceed,  how 
end  ? Oftener  than  one  would  think  off-hand  it  may 
to  advantage  begin  with  a specific  connective  phrase ; 
very  often  it  may  so  expand  as  to  treat  a far  wider 
range  of  subject  than  at  first  one  would  expect.  But 
as  we  saw  when  we  were  discussing  paragraphs  by 
themselves,  it  is  of  the  first  importance  that  each 
sentence  bear  to  the  last  a relation  as  unmistakable 
as  each  paragraph  itself  should  bear  to  its  neighbors ; 
and  there  are  few  cases  where  a paragraph  may  not 
wisely  end  with  words  which  leave  last  in  the 
reader’s  mind  — and  place  where  they  will  most 
readily  catch  the  reader’s  eye  — thoughts  and  emo- 
tions combined  which  shall  somehow  imply  the  mo- 
tive of  the  whole  paragraph.  Coherence  is  often  the 
chief  thing  at  the  beginning;  at  the  end  the  chief 
thing  is  almost  always  emphasis  or  mass. 

I have  said  enough,  I hope,  to  show  how  in  the 
planning  of  whole  compositions,  large  and  small,  the 
now  familiar  principles  of  Unity,  of  Mass,  and  of  Co- 
herence are  of  the  greatest  value.  In  this  phase  of 
their  application  I think  their  true  nature  appears 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


181 


most  clearly.  They  are  not  rules  like  rules  of  gram- 
mar, the  violation  of  which  is  positive  error,  and  the 
observance  of  which  must  be  rigid  ; they  are  general 
principles  of  conduct,  the  disregard  of  which  may 
very  probably  lead  us  astray.  To  state  them  to  our- 
selves too  rigidly  is  to  make  masters  of  what  should 
be  our  servants,  and  to  produce  work  whose  effect 
is  fatally  frigid.  It  is  to  fall  into  the  error  of  such 
pseudo-classicism  as  for  two  centuries  made  intoler- 
ably dull  the  tragic  drama  of  France,  and  for  well 
on  to  a century  the  polite  poetry  of  England.  More 
than  in  shorter  compositions  we  should  apply  them  to 
whole  compositions  with  elastic  intelligence.  We 
should  clearly  understand,  for  example,  whether  for 
our  purposes  we  need  an  introduction  or  a conclu- 
sion, and  accordingly  write  an  introduction  or  a con- 
clusion not  because  on  general  principles  such  things 
seem  desirable,  but  because  the  effect  we  have  in  mind 
demands  one.  And  if  our  space  is  completely  at  our 
disposal,  we  should  arrange  the  dimensions  and  the 
proportions  of  our  materials  in  the  way  which  seems 
to  us  most  suitable  to  the  effect  we  have  is  mind. 
If  rigid  adherence  to  formal  rules  be  fatally  frigid, 
none  the  less  fatal  to  any  certainty  of  effect  is  that 
relaxation  of  grasp  that  must  result  from  disregard 
of  the  principles  of  Unity,  of  Mass,  and  of  Coherence, 
that  underlie  all  formal  rules. 

Perhaps  the  simplest  way  to  show  the  superiority 
of  carefully  planned  work  to  carelessly,  is  to  compare 
examples  of  each  kind  in  the  work  of  the  same  writer. 


182 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


As  examples  undoubtedly  familiar  to  us  all,  I turn  to 
three  familiar  plays  of  Shakspere : the  “ Comedy  of 
Errors,”  the  “Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,”  and  “A 
Midsummer  Night’s  Dream.”  There  is  some  evidence 
to  suggest  that  the  first  two  were  written  before  the 
third ; and  it  is  fairly  certain  that  all  three  belong  to 
the  earlier  part  of  Shakspere’s  career  as  a dramatist. 
In  the  “ Comedy  of  Errors,”  to  be  sure,  the  plot  is  put 
together  with  some  care ; but  the  total  effect  of  the 
play  is  among  the  least  satisfactory  in  the  works  of 
Shakspere.  The  confusion  of  persons  on  which  the 
whole  plot  is  based  is  a palpable  absurdity,  and  there 
is  nothing  in  the  play  to  redeem  it  into  plausibility. 
In  the  “ Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,”  the  plot  is  more 
complicated,  and  for  my  part  I have  never  been  able 
to  detect  much  composition  in  any  part.  The  story  is 
told  in  a succession  of  independent  scenes,  some  effec- 
tive, some  the  reverse.  Proteus,  a young  gentleman 
of  Verona,  leaves  his  mistress,  Julia,  and  goes  to 
Milan,  where  his  friend  Valentine  is  already  at  the 
feet  of  Silvia.  He  proceeds  to  fall  in  love  with  Silvia, 
to  betray  Valentine’s  confidence,  and  to  get  Valentine 
banished  from  Milan.  Valentine,  turning  outlaw, 
subsequently  captures  Proteus  and  some  of  the  other 
principal  personages,  including  Julia,  who  has  fol- 
lowed Proteus  in  disguise.  With  no  particular  reason 
Proteus  suddenly  discovers  that  he  is  in  love  with 
Julia  after  all ; and  the  whole  ends  merrily,  each 
gentleman  allied  to  his  chosen  mistress.  In  which 
plot,  very  carelessly  put  together,  it  is  evident  that 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


183 


the  conduct  of  Proteus  is  at  once  detestable  and  in- 
explicable. Few  plays  could  be  more  thoroughly 
unsatisfactory.  Yet  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  con- 
fusion of  persons  in  the  “ Comedy  of  Errors,”  and 
the  startlingly  sudden  vagaries  of  such  a character  as 
Proteus  are  dramatically  effective.  Well  acted,  they 
will  amuse  an  audience.  In  the  “ Midsummer  Night’s 
Dream  ” we  have  a play  which  I find  it  hard  to  be- 
lieve other  than  a deliberate  working  over  of  these 
two  plots.  The  main  incidents  of  each  are  preserved. 
And  the  absurdity  of  such  confusion  as  we  find  in 
the  “ Comedy  of  Errors,”  and  the  hatefulness  of  such 
meaningless  inconstancy  as  we  find  in  the  “ Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona,”  are  made  plausible  by  being 
transported  into  a world  of  pure  fantasy,  where  they 
are  caused  directly  by  the  intervention  of  a tricky 
fairy.  Perhaps  the  cleverest  variation  of  all  is  that 
by  which  such  treason  to  a friend  as  makes  Proteus 
odious  is  made,  simply  by  attributing  it  to  Helena, 
a woman,  a very  venial  matter.  Whether  the  sense 
of  personal  honor  possessed  by  women  in  general 
is  really  weaker  than  that  of  men,  this  is  not  the 
moment  to  inquire.  It  is  certain,  however,  that 
even  to  the  present  day,  normal  males  forgive  in  a 
woman  many  lines  of  conduct  which  in  any  man  they 
would  most  sternly  condemn.  The  aberration  of  the 
heroine  of  one  of  Mr.  George  Meredith’s  novels,  who 
in  a moment  of  pique  deliberately  betrays  the  political 
secret  of  her  lover  to  the  public  prints,  is  a case  in  point. 
You  regret  that  she  should  be  so  weak,  but,  after  all, 


184 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


the.  weakness  seems  what  you  might  have  expected 
even  from  the  cleverest  woman.  The  virtue  required 
to  resist  that  kind  of  temptation  is  the  virtue  peculiar 
to  men.  There  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  Helena’s 
betrayal  of  Hermia,  in  the  “ Midsummer  Night’s 
Dream,”  which  is  distinguishable  from  Proteus’s  be- 
trayal of  Valentine  only  by  the  fact  that  the  betrayer 
is  not  a man,  impresses  one  rightly  or  wrongly,  not 
as  a piece  of  rascality,  but  as  the  natural,  if  deplor- 
able, vagary  of  a pretty  woman.  With  the  exception 
of  this  incident,  I think,  the  other  incidents  of  the 
two  earlier  plays  which  are  blended  in  the  main  com- 
edy of  the  “ Midsummer  Night’s  Dream  ” are  all  made 
fantastically  plausible  by  the  simple  device  of  placing 
them,  not  on  earth,  but  in  fairyland. 

So  far,  perhaps,  there  has  been  little  in  this  excur- 
sion to  show  why  it  belongs  in  a discussion  of  the  way 
to  put  compositions  together ; but  the  mere  compo- 
sition of  the  u Midsummer  Night’s  Dream  ” has  always 
impressed  me  as  masterly.  The  skilful  care  with 
which  the  scenes  are  put  together  — the  care  which 
makes  the  play  to  this  day  an  acting  comedy  much 
more  amusing  than  I ever  supposed  it  could  be  until 
I saw  it  played  — is  too  subtile  to  be  analyzed  here. 
Whoever  will  read  the  play  with  a little  care  may  see 
it  for  himself.  But  a phase  of  the  composition  just 
as  skilfully  subtile,  and  far  more  apt  to  escape  atten- 
tion, may  be  analyzed  here  perfectly  well.  The  fairy 
world  in  which  the  confusions  of  the  u Comedy  of 
Errors  ” and  the  inconstancies  of  the  “ Two  Gentle- 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


185 


men  of  Verona  ” became  plausible  and  delightful  is  a 
fantastic  region  completely  remote  from  every-day 
life.  With  a cleverness  that  I can  hardly  believe 
other  than  deliberate,  Shakspere  gives  us  a whole  in- 
troductory act  of  romantic  comedy  before  we  approach 
fairyland  at  all.  The  romantic  Athens  of  Theseus 
of  course  is  no  such  place  as  any  actual  human  being 
ever  saw ; but  it  is  a place  near  enough  human  ex- 
perience to  seem  plausible,  and  at  the  same  time  re- 
mote and  fantastic  enough  to  lead  the  way  insensibly 
toward  the  purely  fantastic  forest  where  the  fairy 
comedy  plays  itself  so  charmingly.  But  when  the 
fairy  comedy  is  done,  we  are  too  far  from  daily  life 
not  to  feel  the  unreality  very  sharply  if  we  are  sent 
about  our  daily  business  at  once  ; so  there  is  a whole 
last  act  of  romantic  comedy  again,  and  of  rollicking 
burlesque,  which  leaves  the  fairy  fantasy  at  last  in  a 
sort  of  dreamy  distance,  — just  where  it  belongs.  A 
more  exquisitely  simple  composition  of  apparently  in- 
congruous  elements  into  one  finely  massed  coherent 
whole  I have  never  discovered.  Read  the  “ Midsum- 
mer Night’s  Dream  ” for  yourselves;  compare  it  with 
the  earlier  comedies,  which  I think  may  fairly  be  con- 
sidered as  preliminary  studies.  You  can  have  no 
better  single  lesson  in  composition. 

Of  course,  as  I have  said,  these  guesses  about 
Shakspere’s  methods  of  composition  are  nothing 
more  than  guesses.  The  more  one  knows  of  the 
ordinary  process  of  composition,  however,  the  more 
plausible  these  guesses  seem.  Even  the  best  literary 


186 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


artists  cannot  see  their  way  to  the  best  form  in  which 
their  work  may  be  cast  without  a good  deal  of  pre- 
liminary experiment.  In  the  act  of  composition  this 
preliminary  placing  and  the  preliminary  failures  it 
involves  are  perhaps  the  longest  and  most  tedious 
part  of  the  work.  They  are  just  as  inevitable,  I be- 
lieve, in  argumentative  work,  in  scientific  exposition, 
in  history,  in  any  kind  of  writing  conceivable,  as  they 
are  in  plays  or  novels.  They  are  fraught  with  dis- 
couragement that  any  one  who  hopes  to  be  a literary 
artist  must  learn  constantly  to  expect  and  constantly 
to  face.  The  satisfaction  with  which  at  last  one 
emerges  from  this  period  of  experimental  failure  into 
the  light  of  artistic  certainty  goes  far  to  make  up  for 
all  the  hours  of  discouragement.  That  is  the  bright 
side  of  the  picture. 

To  illustrate  this  a little  further,  I venture  to  recur 
to  my  own  experience  in  putting  together  this  book, 
— originally  a course  of  lectures.  Like  many  people 
who  undertake  the  task  of  composition,  I found  my- 
self at  the  outset  bound  by  certain  unavoidable  condi- 
tions. It  was  necessary  to  divide  the  matter  in  hand 
into  a given  number  of  equal  parts,  — in  this  case  into 
eight  lectures,  each  of  which  should  occupy  one  hour. 
Four  of  these  settled  themselves  at  once.  There  must 
clearly  be  an  introductory  lecture,  to  place  the  general 
scheme  of  the  course  definitely  before  whoever  wished 
to  follow  it  throughout;  and  clearly  there  must  be 
a lecture  about  each  of  the  qualities  of  style,  — Clear- 
ness, the  intellectual ; Force,  the  emotional ; and  Ele- 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


187 


gance,  the  aesthetic.  Clearly,  too,  as  I have  now  said 
with  perhaps  tedious  frequency,  these  qualities  can  be 
conveyed  to  the  mind  of  a reader  only  by  means  of  the 
visible  elements  of  style,  — words  in  composition. 
Evidently,  then,  the  four  remaining  lectures  must  be 
devoted  to  these  elements.  The  precise  question, 
then,  was  how  the  elements  might  best  be  treated  in 
four  parts.  Two  distinct  methods  presented  them- 
selves : one  was  to  speak  first  of  good  use,  as  it 
applies  to  words,  sentences,  paragraphs,  and  whole 
compositions ; then  similarly,  of  each  of  the  three 
principles  of  composition,  the  principles  of  Unity,  of 
Mass,  and  of  Coherence,  — in  other  words,  to  consider 
all  four  elements  four  separate  times.  The  other 
method,  which  I ultimately  preferred,  was  to  consider 
each  element  by  itself,  and  to  show,  as  well  as  I 
could,  how  good  use  and  the  principles  of  composition 
apply  to  each.  This  T preferred  chiefly  because  it 
seemed  more  distinctly  to  emphasize  a fact  that  I hope 
I have  by  this  time  made  familiar ; namely,  that  the 
principles  which  govern  composition  in  all  its  stages 
are  essentially  the  same,  but  that  they  apply  in  differ- 
ent ways  to  sentences  and  to  paragraphs  and  to  wholes. 
Each  separate  stage  of  composition  is  worth  special 
attention.  No  better  way  of  emphasizing  this  oc- 
curred to  me  than  giving  a separate  lecture  to  each. 
Now  came  a more  troublesome  matter  still.  The  con- 
ditions under  which  these  lectures  were  composed 
compelled  each  to  be  given  in  a stated  time  : each  must 
fill  one  hour,  and  no  more.  To  introduce  in  any  sin- 


188 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


gle  lecture  matter  not  closely  related  to  the  subject 
directly  in  hand  would  have  been  confusingly  to  vio- 
late unity,  — to  fail  to  keep  the  four  elements  of  style 
properly  distinct.  In  college,  where  much  more  time 
is  at  my  disposal,  I find  that  I give  four  lectures  to 
words,  seven  to  sentences,  three  to  paragraphs,  and 
only  one  to  whole  compositions.  In  this  course,  then, 
my  problem  became  definite:  it  was  to  reduce  my 
four  lectures  about  words  to  one,  and  my  seven  about 
sentences,  and  my  four  about  paragraphs ; and  then 
to  make  this  lecture  about  whole  compositions  as 
nearly  equivalent  to  the  others  as  I could.  The  re- 
sult of  my  efforts  — a result  which  I lay  before  you  at 
this  moment  in  no  sense  as  a model,  but  only  as  an 
example  with  which  I can  assume  most  of  you  to  have 
some  acquaintance  — is  instantly  open  to  one  serious 
objection.  Beyond  any  question  the  lecture  about 
sentences  is  much  more  crowded  than  any  of  the 
others ; and  this  one  about  whole  compositions  much 
less  so.  The  scheme  has  unity  and  coherence ; but  so 
far  as  proportion  goes  it  is  irregularly  massed ; I 
have  not  given  most  space  to  the  part  of  it  which  on 
the  whole  probably  deserves  most  attention,  — to  the 
element  of  sentences,  where  the  conflict  between  good 
use  and  the  principles  of  composition  is  at  once  most 
evident  and  most  active.  Had  I chosen  the  other 
plan,  — one  lecture  about  good  use,  and  one  about 
each  of  the  principles,  — this  difficulty  might  very 
probably  have  been  avoided.  But  as  I said  a mo- 
ment ago,  this  would  have  failed  to  emphasize  what  I 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS. 


189 


wished  most  to  emphasize  : the  independence,  and  yet 
the  similarity  of  each  of  the  three  stages  of  composi- 
tion,— sentences,  paragraphs,  and  wholes.  I chose, 
then,  deliberately  to  crowd  my  lecture  about  sen- 
tences, and  perhaps  in  some  degree  unduly  to  expand 
this  one  about  whole  compositions.  What  success 
has  attended  my  work,  you  can  judge  better  than  I. 
If  it  has  served  clearly  to  define  what  I conceive  to  be 
the  chief  facts  about  the  elements  of  style,  it  has  done 
all  I could  venture  to  hope. 

In  few  words,  I have  tried  to  make  clear  that  good 
use,  and  nothing  else,  is  what  ultimately  makes  words, 
alone  or  in  composition,  significant  of  ideas,  — any- 
thing more  than  arbitrary  marks  or  sounds.  Only 
within  its  limits  can  we  possibly  apply  any  principles 
at  all ; but  when  we  have  once  learned  to  recognize 
its  limits,  and  begin  to  inquire  how  within  these  limits 
we  may  best  exert  ourselves,  we  find  that  in  all  three 
elements  of  composition  there  are  three  traits  to  which 
we  may  well  attend : the  substance  of  the  composi- 
tion, its  outward  form,  and  its  inner  structure.  And 
we  find  that  our  consideration  of  each  of  these  traits 
is  much  aided  by  a definite  rule.  If  in  considering 
the  substance  of  a sentence,  or  of  a paragraph,  or  of  a 
whole,  we  remind  ourselves  of  the  principle  of  Unity, 
— that  each  composition  should  group  itself  about  one 
central  idea,  — we  shall  find  the  question  of  what  a 
given  composition  may  best  include  a great  deal  easier 
to  answer  than  without  such  help.  And  so  when  we 
remind  ourselves  that  each  composition  — sentence, 


190 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


paragraph,  or  whole  — should  be  so  massed  that  the 
parts  we  wish  to  make  most  notable  may  most  readily 
catch  the  eye ; and  that  in  any  composition  — sen- 
tence, paragraph,  or  whole — the  relation  of  part  to 
part  should  be  unmistakable.  As  we  study  these  prin- 
ciples afresh  with  each  element  of  style,  we  get  to  know 
the  principles  better  and  better,  and  to  appreciate  at 
once,  I think,  their  value  and  their  elasticity. 

If  we  have  followed  all  this  with  reasonable  care, 
we  need  hardly  stop  here  to  remind  ourselves  again 
that  for  convenience’  sake  we  have  phrased  these  prin- 
ciples much  more  dogmatically  than  we  are  warranted 
in  phrasing  them.  The  single  thing  about  which  we 
may  always  risk  positive  assertion  in  matters  concern- 
ing style  is  good  use.  Within  the  limits  of  that  the 
only  real  question  is  what  effects  we  have  in  mind. 
In  by  far  the  greater  number  of  cases  that  present 
themselves,  we  wish  to  produce  an  effect  of  definite, 
firm  mastery  of  the  matter  in  hand.  With  such  an 
object  in  view,  there  is  no  plan  better  than  so  far  as 
good  use  will  permit  deliberately  to  obey  the  principles 
we  have  formulated ; but  if  the  effect  we  wish  to 
produce  be  other  than  the  ordinary  one  I have  just 
mentioned,  a deliberate  disregard  of  the  principles 
may  often  help  us  to  produce  it.  Nothing,  for  exam- 
ple, can  better  produce  an  effect  of  confusion  than 
deliberate  violation  of  unity ; nothing  better  an  effect 
of  weakness  than  deliberate  anti-climax ; and  so  on. 
In  short,  with  every  new  literary  plan,  a new  problem 
arises;  and  that  problem  a writer  cannot  with  cer- 


WHOLE  COMPOSITIONS.  191 

tainty  settle  for  himself  without  a very  clear  under- 
standing of  just  the  effect  he  wishes  to  produce. 

In  our  consideration  of  words,  of  sentences,  and  of 
paragraphs,  we  reached  this  same  point ; and  here 
there  is  little  need  to  dwell  on  it.  We  all  remember 
that  every  word  not  only  names  an  idea,  but  suggests 
along  with  the  idea  it  names  a greater  or  smaller 
number  of  others.  We  all  remember  that  as  words 
are  composed,  not  only  their  denotations  are  put 
together,  but  their  connotations  too.  And  the  same  is 
true  when  sentences  are  composed  in  paragraphs,  and 
paragraphs  in  whole  compositions.  In  Thackeray’s 
description  of  Brussels  during  Waterloo,  for  example, 
the  battle  is  mostly  connoted.  The  effect,  in  short, 
which  any  composition,  large  or  small,  produces,  is 
just  like  the  effect  that  any  word  produces,  — a ques- 
tion of  denotation  and  of  connotation  combined  in 
ways  that  as  the  art  of  composition  grows  finer  be- 
come almost  infinitely  subtile. 

And  now  it  may  be  worth  while  once  more  to  sum 
up  what  I have  said  about  the  elements  of  style,  — the 
visible  features  of  which  every  composition  must  be 
made  up : All  style  must  consist  of  words,  composed  in 
sentences,  composed  in  paragraphs,  composed  in  whole 
compositions.  Our  choice  of  words  is  absolutely  con- 
trolled by  good  use ; but  within  its  limits  we  are  able, 
by  varying  the  kinds  and  the  number  of  our  words,  to 
produce  a great  variety  of  effects.  Our  composition  of 
sentences  must  be  largely  controlled  by  good  use,  in 
the  form  of  grammar  and  idiom ; but  within  its  limits 


192 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


we  are  again  able  to  produce  a great  variety  of  effects, 
by  varying  the  kinds  of  our  sentences  and  by  applying 
to  all  kinds  the  principles  of  Unity,  of  Mass,  and  of 
Coherence.  In  our  composition  of  paragraphs  and  of 
wholes,  we  are  little  trammelled  by  good  use ; so  we 
may  vary  our  effects  by  the  application  of  these  prin- 
ciples almost  as  we  please.  Modern  style  may  be 
regarded,  then,  as  the  result  of  a constant  and  by  no 
means  finished  contest  between  good  use  and  the 
principles  of  composition.  And,  finally,  realizing  that 
any  effect  in  style  must  be  produced, only  by  means  of 
our  composition  of  the  elements,  we  should  never  for- 
get that  in  our  choice  and  our  composition  alike  there 
are  two  things  to  keep  in  mind : their  denotation,  — 
what  they  name ; and  their  connotation,  — what  they 
suggest. 


VI. 


CLEARNESS. 

To  this  point  we  have  been  considering  the  outward 
and  visible  aspect  of  style.  Henceforth  we  shall  ap- 
proach the  subject  in  another  way.  Of  a given  piece 
of  style  we  shall  ask  ourselves,  not  what  it  consists  of, 
but  what  effect  it  produces.  We  shall  concern  our- 
selves chiefly,  not  with  its  elements,  but  with  its  quali- 
ties. Widely  various  as  the  impressions  which  style 
can  make  evidently  are,  they  may,  we  have  seen,  be 
summed  up  under  three  and  only  three  headings.  In 
the  first  place,  any  piece  of  style  appeals  to  the  under- 
standing ; we  understand  it,  or  we  do  not  understand 
it,  or  we  are  doubtful  whether  we  understand  it  or 
not;  in  other  words,  it  has  an  intellectual  quality. 
In  the  second  place,  it  either  interests  us,  or  bores  us, 
or  leaves  us  indifferent ; it  appeals  to  our  emotions  ; 
it  has  an  emotional  quality.  Finally,  it  either  pleases 
us,  or  displeases  us,  or  leaves  us  neither  pleased  nor 
offended ; it  appeals  to  our  taste ; it  has  a quality 
which  I may  call  aesthetic.  Under  one  of  these  head- 
ings, as  I have  said,  fall  in  a general  way  all  the 
qualities  of  style  which  I have  discovered.  We  shall 
discuss  these  three  headings  in  turn : the  intellectual 

13 


194 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


quality  under  the  head  of  Clearness,  the  emotional 
under  the  head  of  Force,  the  aesthetic  under  the  head 
of  Elegance. 

Clearness  — the  quality  before  us  now  — I may  best 
define  as  the  distinguishing  quality  of  a style  that 
cannot  be  misunderstood.  To  be  thoroughly  clear,  it 
is  not  enough  that  style  express  the  writer’s  meaning ; 
style  must  so  express  this  meaning  that  no  rational 
reader  can  have  any  doubt  as  to  what  the  meaning  is. 
To  come  as  near  clearness  as  I could,  for  example,  I 
deliberately  avoided  pronouns  in  that  last  sentence, 
repeating  style  and  meaning  with  a clumsiness  defen- 
sible only  on  the  score  of  lucidity. 

The  first  difficulty  that  meets  us  in  considering  this 
quality  is  a matter  of  every-day  experience.  One 
need  know  little  of  life  to  be  familiar  with  the  fact 
that  plenty  of  things  are  daily  said  and  written  which 
are  perfectly  clear  to  some  people,  and  at  the  same 
time  wholly  incomprehensible  to  others.  A good 
many  of  my  friends  at  college  are  deep  in  one  or 
another  kind  of  scientific  study.  I am  apt  to  lunch 
with  one  of  them  who  frequently  has  in  his  hand  an 
elementary  treatise  on  Physics.  Once  or  twice  lately 
I have  looked  into  this  book.  The  Preface  and  a 
considerable  part  of  the  text  are  indubitably  written 
in  the  English  language ; but  a large  part  of  most 
pages  that  I have  happened  to  look  at  is  covered 
with  formulae  which  group  themselves  in  my  mind 
under  the  general  heading  a + b = To  a phy- 

sicist, in  all  probability,  that  formula  would  mean 


CLEARNESS. 


195 


nothing  whatever ; but  it  would  mean  exactly  as 
much  as  any  of  his  profoundly  significant  formulae 
mean  to  me.  The  only  difference  would  be  that 
while  he  and  I know  that  my  formula  is  probably  non- 
sensical, we  both  know  that  in  all  probability  his  for- 
mulae are  not.  To  me,  then,  a reasonably  educated 
man,  an  elementary  treatise  on  Physics  is  wholly 
lacking  in  clearness ; to  a student  of  Physics,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  is  as  clear  as  A B C.  Again,  among 
my  pupils  at  Harvard  there  are  a number  who  take  a 
healthy  interest  in  the  game  of  foot-ball ; and  some  of 
these  write  detailed  reports  of  the  games  for  the  col- 
lege papers.  These  reports  I have  sometimes  had  the 
curiosity  to  examine.  Like  the  textbook  of  Physics, 
they  are  indubitably  written  in  something  that  pur- 
ports to  be  English.  “ Full-back,”  for  example,  is 
obviously  a compound  of  familiar  English  words  ; so 
is  “ rush-line  ; ” so  is  “ a foul  tackle  ; ” and  so  on. 
But  a column  or  two  about  full-backs  and  half-backs 
and  rush-lines  and  such  things  convey  to  my  ordina- 
rily educated  mind  no  definite  meaning  whatever ; 
and  this  because,  perhaps  unwisely,  I have  never  made 
myself  familiar  with  the  technical  practices  and  terms 
of  the  game  of  foot-ball.  To  a great  many  under- 
graduates, on  the  other  hand,  I find  these  reports  of 
sport  perfectly  clear.  In  matters  of  foot-ball  their 
technical  learning  is  as  admirable  as  is  my  scientific 
friend’s  in  the  matter  of  Physics.  In  each  case  I am 
left  in  helpless  bewilderment.  But  I discover  that  I 
can  have  my  revenge  by  addressing  physicists  and 


196 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


sportsmen  in  the  technical  terms  of  rhetoric,  which  to 
all  appearances  equally  bewilder  them.  These  very 
simple  examples,  such  as  each  of  you  must  constantly 
meet  in  daily  life,  — if  only  when  you  hear  people 
gossiping  about  friends  of  theirs  whom  you  do  not 
happen  to  know,  — are  enough  to  show  what  we  mean 
when  we  assert  that  clearness  is  not  a positive  quality, 
but  a relative ; that  what  may  be  perfectly  clear  to 
one  man  may  be  hopelessly  obscure  to  another. 

In  a general  discussion,  however,  we  must  not  rest 
satisfied  with  a fact  like  this.  The  question  before  us 
is,  very  broadly,  what  kind  of  style  is  generally  clear, 
and  what  not.  As  clearness  is  obviously  a relative 
quality,  this  question  means,  in  other  words,  what 
kind  of  human  being  shall  we  generally  aim  to 
address  ? And  this  question  admits  of  a pretty  defi- 
nite answer.  A generally  clear  style  is  a style  adapted 
to  the  understanding  of  the  average  man.  The  more 
widely  intelligible  a given  piece  of  writing  is,  the 
clearer. 

I know  few  points  in  rhetoric  which  arouse  in  clever 
people  more  impatience  than  this.  To  clever  people, 
no  matter  how  philanthropic  their  general  scheme  of 
life,  there  are  few  more  unlovely  facts  than  the  aver- 
age man.  He  is  commonplace ; and  what  is  common- 
place is  precisely  what  a clever  person  does  not  wish 
to  be.  The  aristocratic  instinct,  which  makes  human 
beings  in  general  exert  so  much  of  their  energy  to 
distinguish  themselves  from  their  fellows,  makes  clever 
people,  who  are  fond  of  talking  about  “ aristocracies 


CLEARNESS. 


197 


of  intellect  ” and  the  like,  recoil  from  the  common- 
place. Why,  an  average  man  can  understand  the 
daily  newspapers,  and  Mr.  Roe’s  novels,  and  all  the 
other  myriad  books  of  the  great  gospel  of  Philistia. 
Heaven  forfend  that  men  of  wit  address  themselves 
to  such  as  he ! 

At  all  events,  this  mood  is  one  which  constantly 
confronts  me  as  a teacher ; and  in  some  degree  as  a 
reader  of  modern  literature  too.  It  is  nowhere  more 
apparent  than  in  the  works  of  two  writers  whom  I am 
sometimes  disposed  to  rate  as  the  two  most  notable 
literary  figures  of  Victorian  England,  — Carlyle  in 
prose,  and  Browning  in  verse.  It  is  a mood  which 
can  be  justified  by  nothing  but  the  possession  of 
genius,  — of  that  wonderful  power  of  insight  into 
things  unseen  which  enables  rare  men,  at  rare  inter- 
vals, to  leave  behind  them  records  which  permanently 
enrich  the  wisdom  of  the  race.  Very  notoriously  the 
faults  of  genius  are  easy  to  follow  : anybody  can  take 
to  opium,  and  it  was  opium  which  produced  that  won- 
derful Confession  of  De  Quincey’s  ; anybody  can  wear 
a loose  collar  and  declare  himself  a very  bad  man  in- 
deed, and  were  not  loose  collars  and  incessant  mani- 
festoes of  personal  villany  salient  characteristics  of 
Byron  ? Anybody,  in  short,  can  imitate  the  superfi- 
cial traits  that  distinguish  men  of  genius  from  what 
is  commonplace.  And  fewer  people  than  one  would 
believe  off-hand  can  understand  the  wisdom  and  the 
truth  of  the  old  myth : it  was  not  only  the  theft  of 
fire  from  heaven  that  made  Prometheus  the  great 


198 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


type  of  genius  ;*  it  was  that  he  gave  the  stolen  fire  to 
all  mankind. 

The  fact  is  that  the  average  man  may  be  viewed 
with  equal  truth  in  two  different  ways.  In  one  aspect 
he  is  commonplace,  and  nothing  more ; and  what  is 
commonplace  is  not  winsome.  In  another  aspect  he 
is  more  broadly  and  more  profoundly  than  his  fellow- 
men  of  genius  a human  being,  — the  permanent  type 
of  those  simplest  and  broadest  traits,  of  thought  and 
of  emotion  alike,  which  make  the  brotherhood  of  the 
human  race.  And  among  the  men  of  genius  and  the 
men  of  wit  who  emulate  them,  not  many  have  or 
have  had  the  perception  to  feel  beneath  his  common- 
place exterior  this  great,  permanent  fact  of  humanity. 

Yet  no  trait  seems  to  me  more  surely  character- 
istic of  such  art  as  the  centuries  finally  pronounce  the 
greatest  than  a frank  recognition  of  this  humanity. 
In  architecture,  in  sculpture,  in  painting,  in  music,  as 
well  as  in  the  art  of  letters,  which  we  are  specially 
studying  now,  the  supreme  works  have  first  of  all  a 
noble  simplicity  which  makes  them  mean  something 
to  all  men.  Unlearned  men,  and  limited,  never  see 
in  the  great  works  all  that  is  there  to  see.  The  great- 
est works  have  a depth  of  significance  that  reveals 
new  meanings  to  each  generation  that  approaches 
them,  each  with  its  own  new  experience  of  human 
life ; but  above  all  this  lasting  significance  the  great 
works  rise  with  a superficial  simplicity  that  makes 
them  seem  to  ordinary  men  things  almost  as  intelligible 
as  to  the  learned  they  seem  more  and  more  marvel- 


CLEARNESS. 


199 


lous.  I have  hardly  met  a traveller  from  Athens  who 
has  not  felt  the  beauty  of  the  Parthenon,  nor  one 
from  France  who  has  been  insensible  to  the  grandeur 
of  a great  Gothic  cathedral.  There  is  something  in 
the  Phidian  sculpture  that  makes  it  a pleasant  thing 
to  the  eyes  of  Bostonian  laborers,  of  a Sunday  after- 
noon. To  almost  any  eye  a great  Madonna  of  Raphael 
is  a picture  still  worth  the  trouble  of  looking  at. 
Many  an  ear  bewildered  by  the  complexity  of  a mod- 
ern symphony  can  take  permanent  delight  in  listen- 
ing to  one  of  the  great  movements  of  Beethoven. 
And  in  this  art  of  letters,  any  one  can  feel  the  charm 
of  Homer’s  swift  narrative,  and  of  Dante’s  marvellous 
descriptions  ; and  as  for  Shakspere,  his  plays  — the 
body  of  English  literature  which  has  proved  perhaps 
best  of  all  to  reward  patient  study  — still,  after  three 
centuries,  hold  the  stage  before  popular  audiences. 
To  come  down  to  lesser  things,  there  is  in  English 
no  other  satire  so  terrible  in  its  lasting  misanthropic 
significance  as  “ Gulliver’s  Travels,”  nor  any  nursery 
tale  more  certain  to  please  children. 

The  perfect  simplicity  of  Swift’s  mature  style  is 
what  makes  him  to  this  day,  in  certain  aspects,  among 
the  safest  models  we  can  follow ; and  a short  pas- 
sage from  one  of  his  mature  works  — “ A Letter  to  a 
Young  Clergyman”  — shows  how  deliberate  this  sim- 
plicity was : — 

“I  believe,”  he  writes,  “ the  method  observed  by  the 
famous  Lord  Falkland,  in  some  of  his  writings,  would  not 
be  an  ill  one  for  young  divines.”  — This  Lord  Falkland, 


200 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


you  will  remember,  was  perhaps  the  most  spotless  and 
accomplished  of  the  loyal  gentlemen  who  fell  in  the  Civil 
Wars,  fighting  for  King  Charles.  — u I was  assured  by  an 
old  person  of  quality,  who  knew  him  well,  that  when  he 
doubted  whether  a word  was  perfectly  intelligible  or  not, 
he  used  to  consult  one  of  his  lady’s  chambermaids  (not 
the  waiting- woman,  because  it  was  possible  she  might  be 
conversant  in  romances) , and  by  her  judgment  was  guided 
whether  to  receive  or  reject  it.  And  if  that  great  person 
thought  such  a caution  necessary  in  treatises  offered  to 
the  learned  world,  it  will  be  sure  at  least  as  proper  in  ser- 
mons, where  the  meanest  hearer  is  supposed  to  be  con- 
cerned, and  where  very  often  a lady’s  chambermaid  may 
be  allowed  to  equal  half  the  congregation,  both  as  to 
quality  and  understanding.  But  I know  not  how  it  comes 
to  pass  that  professors  in  most  arts  and  sciences  are  gen- 
erally the  worst  qualified  to  explain  their  meaning  to 
those  who  are  not  of  their  tribe : a common  farmer  shall 
make  you  understand  in  three  words  that  his  foot  is  out 
of  joint,  or  his  collar-bone  broken ; wherein  a surgeon, 
after  a hundred  turns  of  art,  if  you  are  not  a scholar, 
shall  leave  you  to  seek.” 

In  few  words,  the  secret  of  what  is  permanent  in 
literary  art  is  “ to  think  the  thoughts  of  the  wise,  to 
speak  the  language  of  the  simple.” 

It  is,  then,  of  the  first  importance  that  a writer  who 
wishes  to  be  clear  — to  use  a style  that  cannot  be 
misunderstood  — reconcile  himself  to  the  thought  of 
addressing  the'  average  man,  and  not  a little  company 
of  the  elect.  But  even  when  he  has  reached  this 
resolution,  his  task  is  only  begun.  There  are  few 


CLEARNESS. 


201 


facts  which  do  more  to  prevent  the  free  intercourse  of 
man  with  man  than  our  habit  of  assuming  that  other 
people  think  as  we  do.  Common  tricks  of  speech  are 
apt  to  have  more  significance  than  we  generally  at- 
tach to  them ; and  there  is  one  trick  of  speech,  in- 
cessant in  children  and  other  uneducated  folks,  — and 
by  no  means  confined  to  them,  — which  at  this  point 
has  often  seemed  to  me  suggestive.  Whoever  thought- 
lessly begins  to  tell  a story  is  very  apt  to  find  himself 
interjecting  at  intervals  the  words,  “ You  know.”  At 
bottom,  I take  it,  this  really  means  that  one  is  in- 
stinctively disposed  to  fancy  the  company  he  addresses 
really  in  possession  of  his  own  experience.  And  I 
have  always  relished  a family  story  which  relates  how 
a precise  old  gentleman,  some  years  ago,  interrupted 
his  grandson,  who  began  to  utter  frequent  “ You 
knows,”  with  these  words  : “No,  sir ; we  do  not  know. 
And  we  presume  that  is  why  you  are  affording  us  the 
information.” 

The  first  thing  a writer  wants  to  realize,  in  short, 
is  the  range  and  limit  of  his  reader’s  information.  In 
literature,  as  truly  as  in  science,  the  only  safe  method, 
is  to  proceed  from  what  is  known  to  what  is  unknown. 
Thus  proceeding,  we  shall  always  be  clear ; failing 
thus  to  proceed,  we  shall  generally  fail  to  attain 
clearness. 

But  what  may  we  assume  to  be  known  ? That  is  the 
question.  Needlessly  to  explain  familiar  matters  were 
at  the  very  least  a waste  of  time,  probably  exasper- 
ating to  whoever  is  called  upon  to  waste  it.  To  leave 


202 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


unexplained  matters  that  a reader  does  not  understand 
is  often  to  proceed  thenceforth  — so  far  as  the  reader 
is  concerned  — to  no  purpose  whatever.  The  simplest 
way,  I think,  of  considering  what  we  may  assume 
other  men  to  know  is  to  inquire  in  what  ways  we 
are  apt  to  blunder  in  this  matter  of  clearness. 

There  are  two  fairly  distinct  ways  in  which  we 
constantly  fail  to  make  ourselves  understood.  The 
first  is  by  so  expressing  ourselves  that  what  we  say 
may  mean  more  than  one  thing : in  which  case  our 
style  is  sometimes  vague,  sometimes  ambiguous.  The 
second  is  by  so  expressing  ourselves  that,  at  least 
without  study  on  the  part  of  the  reader,  what  we 
say  does  not  mean  anything  at  all : in  which  case 
our  style  is  obscure.  These  two  ways  of  avoiding 
clearness  are  worth  consideration  in  detail. 

In  daily  life,  in  speech  and  in  writing  alike,  we  find 
it  convenient  to  express  ourselves  with  no  great 
nicety  of  phrase.  I have  just  been  reading  a com- 
position by  an  undergraduate  who  endeavored  to  tell 
what  he  saw  some  months  ago  during  a visit  to 
Quebec.  Among  other  things  he  visited  a church, 
which  he  described  as  having  “ plain,  rough  walls,” 
adding  a little  later  that  it  was  “ ancient.”  As  the 
church  in  question  is  in  Quebec,  it  evidently  cannot 
be  much  above  two  centuries  old;  so  the  suggestion 
which  “ ancient  ” would  arouse  abroad  — that  the 
structure  was  of  Roman  origin  — is  happily  out  of 
the  question.  But  what  are  “ plain,  rough  walls  ” ? 
Are  they  of  stone  or  brick  or  wood  ? And  of  what 


CLEARNESS. 


203 


general  style  of  architecture  is  the  building  of  which 
they  form  a part,  — Romanesque,  Gothic,  or  Renais- 
sance ? and  so  on.  In  point  of  fact,  being  unfamiliar 
with  Quebec,  I have  not  the  slightest  idea.  I am 
almost  as  far  from  a definite  notion  of  what  the 
church  in  question  looks  like  as  if  I had  not  been 
informed  that  its  walls  were  plain  and  rough.  The 
only  service  that  these  words  have  done  me  is  to  set 
me  to  making  in  fancy  one  of  the  many  images  that 
they  would  properly  describe ; and  for  aught  I know, 
this  image  of  a rubble  structure  with  small  square 
windows  is  no  more  like  the  church  in  question  than 
Westminster  Abbey  is  like  St.  Peter’s  at  Rome. 

In  this  case,  the  vagueness  of  phrase  was  due  to 
carelessness.  Doubtless  my  pupil  had  some  general 
idea  of  the  material,  the  shape,  the  color,  of  his 
“ plain,  rough  ” walls.  But  his  phrases  might  have 
fitted  so  many  other  ideas  than  the  ones  they  were 
meant  to  express,  that  for  an  ordinary  reader  they 
had  no  particular  value.  This  example  too  — a bit 
from  a description  of  something  that  the  writer  has 
not  lately  observed  — suggests  one  fact  about  vague- 
ness of  phrase  that  is  worth  remarking.  Vagueness 
is  far  more  common  in  reminiscent  descriptions  than 
in  descriptions  of  things  that  have  been  lately  ob- 
served. All  the  carelessness  of  habitual  speech  and 
writing  rarely  suffices  to  make  a note  of  something 
recent  by  any  means  as  indistinct  as  a note  of  the 
same  thing  after  an  interval.  While  sometimes  a 
mere  matter  of  style,  vagueness  is  oftener  an  actual 


204 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


matter  of  thought.  In  a general  way,  a vague  writer 
does  not  know  what  he  wants  to  say,  and  so  generally 
says  something  that  may  mean  a great  many  different 
things. 

I have  taken  the  simplest  and  most  concrete  example 
of  this  offence  against  clearness  that  I could  find. 
In  this  simplest  form  the  trouble  is  most  typically 
apparent ; and  it  does  not  essentially  differ  from  the 
same  trouble  in  the  greatest  complexity.  The  plati- 
tudes of  cheap  sermons,  of  political  eloquence,  of 
unintelligent  criticism,  all  reduce  themselves  to  the 
same  thing.  “ Love,”  writes  a Harvard  student,  “ is 
that  abiding  principle  in  the  life  of  man  which  leads 
him  to  do  right  because  it  is  the  highest  pleasure  of  his 
life  to  be  in  sympathy  and  touch  with  the  source  of 
all  good.”  Conceivably  the  man  who  wrote  that  had 
some  idea  of  what  he  meant : he  explained  afterward 
that  by  “ love  ” he  meant  what  the  older  translators 
of  the  Bible  called  “ charity,”  — the  thing  which  is 
declared  greater  than  faith  and  hope.  But  I confess 
myself  unable  from  his  definition  to  frame  any  dis- 
tinct idea  of  what  the  quality  that  has  so  baffled 
translators  of  Scripture  may  be. 

Partly  a matter  of  thought,  then,  and  partly  a mat- 
ter of  phrase,  vagueness  is  fatal  to  real  clearness,  be- 
cause a style  vague  in  any  part  is  a style  which, 
though  it  be  not  meaningless,  is  always  a style  that 
may  be  misunderstood. 

More  subtile  than  vagueness,  because  far  less  a 
matter  of  thought,  and  so  far  less  conscious,  is  am- 


CLEARNESS. 


205 


biguity.  In  a book  on  rhetoric  I lately  read  is  a 
long  quotation  from  some  respectable  man  of  letters 
concerning  what  the  career  of  a man  of  letters  ought 
to  be ; and  at  the  end  of  the  quotation,  he  who 
quotes  writes  thus : “ The  foregoing  considerations 
will  serve  to  show  how  truly  the  author's  career  is 
made  up  not  only  of  endeavor  and  achievement,  but 
also  of  travail  and  self-denial.”  Now,  whom  does  he 
mean  by  “ the  author  ” ? Discarding  the  unreason- 
able though  not  unwarrantable  notion  that  he  means 
himself,  — for  writers  have  a stupid  trick  of  referring 
to  themselves  as  the  author,”  — does  he  mean  the 
man  who  wrote  the  extract  he  has  quoted,  or  that 
abstract  being,  the  author  in  general  ? Probably  the 
latter ; but  not  certainly.  If  he  had  said  “ an 
author,”  there  would  have  been  no  doubt.  As  he 
has  said  “ the  author,”  which  may  properly  mean 
either,  his  style  is  a style  that  can  be  misunderstood. 
He  knew  exactly  what  he  meant : in  this  case  there 
was  no  confusion  of  thought ; but  the  poor  reader 
must  be  left  to  take  what  comfort  he  can  in  the 
best  guess  he  can  make. 

Mere  matters  of  words,  these ; but  ambiguity  can 
also  be  a question  of  sentences.  In  “ Macbeth  ” is  a 
speech  which  has  puzzled  actors  and  critics  alike. 
Lady  Macbeth  has  proposed  the  murder  of  Duncan. 
“And  if  we  fail?”  says  Macbeth.  “We  fail,”  is  her 
answer.  “ But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking- 
point,  and  we  ’ll  not  fail.”  Now,  how  should  her  “We 
fail  ” be  read  ? Is  it  an  exclamation,  — “ We  fail ! ” — 


206 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


disdaining  such  a possibility  ? Or  is  it  a grim  accept- 
ance of  fate,  — “ We  fail,”  if  so  must  be  ? Again,  in 
“ Much  Ado  about  Nothing,”  where  Hero  is  slandered 
at  the  marriage-altar  and  swoons,  Beatrice  exclaims, 
“Why,  how  now,  cousin!  wherefore  sink  you  down?” 
Miss  Ellen  Terry  gave  this  line  as  an  exclamation  of 
terror.  To  my  thinking,  it  were  more  in  the  charac- 
ter of  Beatrice  to  give  it  as  an  exclamation  of  dis- 
dain, implying  that  for  her  part  Beatrice  would  rise 
in  wrath,  and  not  sink  at  all.  And  to  go  no  farther 
than  every-day  life,  whoever  has  played  the  game  of 
Twenty  Questions  knows  from  experience  how  in- 
geniously exasperating  intentional  ambiguity  can  be, 
especially  if  the  maker  thereof  happen  to  be  clever. 

Vagueness  and  ambiguity  have  in  common  the 
trait  that  they  sin  against  clearness,  not  by  meaning 
nothing,  but  by  conceivably  meaning  more  than  one 
thing ; and  vagueness,  we  have  seen,  is  chiefly  a 
matter  of  thought,  and  ambiguity  chiefly  a matter  of 
phrase.  Obscurity,  the  other  offence  against  clear- 
ness, differs  from  them  by  apparently  having  no  mean- 
ing at  all.  Apparently,  I say,  because  I have  found  it 
convenient  generally  to  class  as  obscure  any  passage 
which  will  not  reveal  its  meaning  without  study.  As 
a matter  of  fact,  few  written  documents  of  any  kind 
can  reasonably  claim  a right  to  be  studied.  Most 
things  that  we  read,  we  read  only  once.  If  one  hon- 
est reading  does  not  reveal  their  meaning,  the  mean- 
ing, so  far  as  one  honest  reader  goes,  is  as  good  as 
none ; so  really  it  may  be  a matter  either  of  con- 


CLEARNESS.  207 

summate  confusion  of  thought,  or  merely  of  inapt 
diction. 

Take,  for  example,  two  well-known  writers,  whose 
works  in  general  are,  according  to  my  definition, 
obscure,  — Browning  and  Emerson.  In  Emerson’s 
essays  there  are  any  number  of  single  sentences  as 
simple  as  one  can  wish.  I open  a volume  of  his  at 
random.  On  the  first  page  to  which  I turn  is  this 
sentence,  which  nobody  can  misunderstand  : “ Deal 
so  plainly  with  man  and  woman  as  to  constrain  the 
utmost  sincerity  and  destroy  all  hope  of  trifling  with 
you.”  But  a few  lines  later  comes  this  sentence,  which 
I,  for  one,  fail  to  understand  at  all : “ The  simplest 
person  who  in  his  integrity  worships  God  becomes 
God;  yet  forever  and  ever  the  influx  of  this  better 
and  universal  self  is  new  and  unsearchable.”  Such 
contrasts  as  this  abound  in  Emerson.  At  one  mo- 
ment he  is  simple  enough  for  any  child ; at  the  next, 
lost  in  what  seems,  except  to  his  worshippers,  a hope- 
less mist  of  words.  No  one  of  his  essays  that  I have 
ever  read  leaves  in  your  mind  an  impression  that  you 
can  definitely  phrase.  You  are  impressed  with  the 
subtile  personal  quality  of  the  man ; perhaps  you  are 
stirred,  ashamed  of  the  meaner  parts  of  yourself, 
eager  to  do  something  with  those  parts  of  your- 
self that  are  not  mean.  But,  asked  precisely  what 
Emerson  has  told  you,  in  all  human  probability  you 
will  be  compelled  to  confess  that  you  do  not  know. 
As  he  says  himself,  I believe,  his  paragraphs  seem 
made  up  of  sentences  which  possess  inexhaustible 


208 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


powers  of  mutual  repellence.  Consistency,  if  I re- 
member aright,  he  somewhere  declares  to  be  the  chief 
vice  of  little  minds.  Of  almost  any  one  of  Emerson’s 
essays  you  can  remember  some  notable  phrases,  a 
general  atmosphere  of  that  peculiar  purity  which  we 
find  only  in  New  England,  but  no  such  thing  as 
organic  unity.  In  fact,  I take  it,  Emerson  himself 
could  often  have  been  found  at  fault,  had  he  tried 
to  explain  exactly  what  he  meant.  Emerson’s  ob- 
scurity comes,  I think,  from  want  of  coherently  sys- 
tematic thought.  Browning’s,  on  the  other  hand,  as 
some  recent  critic  has  eagerly  maintained,  is  only  an 
“ alleged  obscurity.”  What  he  meant  he  always 
knew.  The  trouble  is  that,  like  Shakspere  now  and 
then,  he  generally  meant  so  much  and  took  so  few 
words  to  say  it  in,  that  the  ordinary  reader,  familiar 
with  the  simple  diffuseness  of  contemporary  style, 
does  not  pause  over  each  word  long  enough  to  appre- 
ciate its  full  significance.  What  reading  I have  done 
in  Browning  inclines  me  to  believe  this  opinion  pretty 
well  based.  He  had  an  inexhaustible  fancy,  too,  for 
arranging  his  words  in  such  order  as  no  other  human 
being  would  have  thought  of.  Generally,  I fancy, 
Browning  could  have  told  you  what  he  meant  by 
almost  any  passage,  and  what  relation  that  passage 
bore  to  the  composition  of  which  it  formed  a part ; 
but  it  is  not  often  that  you  can  open  a volume  of 
Browning  and  explain,  without  a great  deal  of  study, 
what  the  meaning  of  any  whole  page  is.  Emerson’s 
indubitable  obscurity  to  ordinary  readers  I take  to  be 


CLEARNESS. 


209 


a matter  of  actual  thought ; Browning’s  seems  rather 
to  be  a matter  of  what  seems  — even  though  it  really 
were  not  — deliberate  perversity  of  phrase. 

I have  dwelt  perhaps  too  long  on  the  ways  in 
which  writers  avoid  clearness.  My  purpose,  you  will 
remember,  was  to  define  as  distinctly  as  I could 
the  ways  in  which  we  may  manage  at  any  point  in 
our  writing  to  put  ourselves  out  of  touch  with  a 
reader.  To  be  clear  in  narrative,  or  in  exposition,  or 
in  argument,  or  in  any  kind  of  discourse  whatever, 
we  must  evidently  proceed  from  what  is  known  to 
what  is  unknown ; and  if  at  any  point  in  this  process 
we  permit  our  style  to  become  vague  or  ambiguous 
or  obscure,  — in  other  words,  so  to  express  ourselves 
either  that  our  meaning  may  rationally  be  mistaken 
or  that  we  may  rationally  be  supposed  to  have  no 
meaning  at  all,  — we  may  resign  ourselves  to  the 
probability  that  from  thenceforward  our  readers  will 
have  comparatively  little  idea  what  we  are  about. 
The  precise  question  before  us,  then,  is  what  the 
average  man  may  be  expected  to  find  vague  or 
ambiguous  or  obscure. 

In  the  first  place,  as  many  of  the  examples  I have 
cited  show,  he  will  certainly  find  vague  or  ambiguous 
or  obscure  — as  the  case  may  be  — whatever  is  not 
clear  in  the  writer’s  mind.  A commonplace  that  we 
have  all  heard  insists  that  whoever  knows  what  he 
wishes  to  say  can  say  it.  If  this  were  true,  life  would 
be  less  troublesome  than  we  generally  find  it.  Like 
other  commonplaces,  however,  this  has  in  it  a large 

14 


210 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


element  of  truth.  If  an  unexpressed  thought  has 
gone  so  far  as  to  phrase  itself  in  distinct  words,  the 
chief  part  of  the  business  is  done.  All  that  is  left  is 
the  mere  utterance  in  speech  or  in  writing, — a purely 
mechanical  matter.  But  except  in  the  case  of  cer- 
tain public  speakers,  and  other  habitual  makers  of 
phrases,  an  unexpressed  thought  does  not  often  cast 
itself  in  any  distinct  form  of  words  ; nor  indeed  does 
it  generally  present  itself  to  the  thinker  in  any  dis- 
tinct form  at  all.  Take,  for  example,  a state  of  things 
I constantly  meet  at  college.  In  some  of  my  courses 
there  I require  students  to  read  very  copiously  ; in 
a course  concerning  the  Elizabethan  drama,  for  in- 
stance, I ask  them  to  read  in  a week  three  or  four 
plays,  of  about  the  length  of  one  of  Shakspere’s. 
Then  I ask  them,  week  by  week,  to  tell  me  in  writing 
what  their  reading  has  meant  to  them,  — in  short,  to 
define  their  impressions  as  they  read.  Their  weekly 
reports  are  apt  to  be  very  vague ; for  the  reason,  I be- 
lieve, that  as  a rule  students  are  not  in  the  habit  of 
forming  definite  opinions  of  what  they  read,  that  their 
impressions  are  really  confused  to  a degree  that  is 
almost  bewildering,  and  that  they  have  not  learned 
the  beginning  of  the  secret  of  reducing  mental  chaos 
to  order.  And  before  they  can  be  clear  in  their  ex- 
pression they  must  have  something  other  than  chaos 
to  express. 

Week  by  week,  when  I am  going  to  lecture  on  this 
literature  which  I have  asked  my  pupils  to  read  and  to 
criticise,  I have  found  myself  in  much  their  position. 


CLEARNESS. 


211 


I have  read  these  plays  myself ; they  have  impressed 
me  in  a good  many  different  ways  which  combine  in 
one  general  impression,  that  at  first  seems  to  defy 
analysis.  Yet  before  my  lecture  can  amount  to  any- 
thing, I must  analyze  this  impression.  Personally  I 
have  found  the  best  method  to  be  tentative  expression. 
Pencil  in  hand,  I try  to  phrase  those  parts  of  my  im- 
pression which  seem  most  nearly  to  have  reached  the 
form  of  words.  I make  such  little  packs  of  cards  as 
I spoke  of  when  I was  talking  of  whole  compositions. 
And  as  I write  these  cards,  with  a separate  heading 
on  each  one,  and  study  their  mutual  relations,  I find 
my  ideas  of  the  subject  in  hand  slowly  defining  them- 
selves. Almost  always,  however,  they  define  them- 
selves slowly.  It  is  not  often  that  I give  a lecture 
twice  without  finding  my  ideas  of  what  I wish  to  say 
growing  more  definite  each  time ; and  sometimes  the 
process  is  very  long.  As  I have  remarked  before, 
I think,  I have  been  fully  ten  years  in  making  up 
my  mind  what  I think  of  the  matters  I am  now 
discussing. 

My  method  of  clearing  my  ideas  is  by  no  means  the 
only  one.  I have  known  people  who  could  do  it  best 
by  talking ; by  putting  somebody  else  in  a comforta- 
ble chair  and  making  him  listen  to  their  efforts 
to  discover  what  they  really  think.  I have  known 
others  who  could  really  do  best  by  sitting  still  and 
pondering  in  apparent  idleness ; others  who  could  do 
best  by  walking  alone  in  the  open  air ; others,  by  stat- 
ing to  themselves  the  problems  they  wish  to  solve,  and 


212 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


then  going  about  all  manner  of  other  business,  trust- 
ing, from  experience,  to  something  they  call  uncon- 
scious cerebration.  Each  man,  I take  it,  must  find 
his  own  method ; at  different  times  each  man  may 
find  different  methods  the  best.  But  by  some  method 
or  other  each  man  must  arrive  at  something  as  near 
as  may  be  to  precision  of  thought  before  he  can  hope 
with  any  certainty  for  clearness  of  style. 

The  truth  is  we  are  once  more  face  to  face  with  the 
real  nature  of  this  art  we  are  studying.  Whatever 
our  subject-matter,  our  task  is  to  translate  the  evanes- 
cent, immaterial  reality  of  thought  and  emotion  into 
written  words.  No  matter  how  humble  our  task  may 
seem,  — even  if  we  are  merely  writing  the  most  trivial 
of  letters,  — we  are  really  performing,  well  or  ill,  an  act 
of  creative  imagination.  We  put  before  ourselves,  in 
imagination,  a certain  set  of  words.  Pen  in  hand,  we 
put  these  words  on  paper ; and  there  on  paper  is 
something  that  in  just  that  form  was  never  on  paper 
before.  Now,  what  makes  this  creation  of  ours  some- 
thing more  than  a collection  of  meaningless  marks, 
such  as  a little  child  might  scrawl,  is  that  common 
consent,  good  use,  has  agreed  that  these  marks  shall 
stand  for  certain  sounds,  and  that  these  sounds  shall 
stand  as  symbols  for  certain  parts  of  the  immaterial 
reality  of  thought  that  makes  up  our  conscious  lives. 
Our  first  concern  is  to  know  as  definitely  as  we  can 
precisely  what  that  reality  is. 

As  in  other  human  matters,  we  shall  find  our  power 
limited.  Conscious  human  life  is  a tremendously 


CLEARNESS. 


213 


subtile,  complex  thing.  To  phrase  — with  what  accu- 
racy language  allows  — all  the  thoughts  and  emotions, 
great  and  small,  high  and  low,  simple  and  inter- 
mingled, that  compose  the  conscious  life  of  a single 
day,  were  to  fill  volumes.  We  must  leave  out  most  of 
what  we  know,  we  must  select  from  this  great  con- 
fused mass  of  real  knowledge  those  bits  which  belong 
together,  and  which,  symbolized  together,  shall  awaken 
in  a reader’s  mind  something  of  what  they  have  been 
in  ours.  At  best  our  symbol  of  them  must  be  in- 
complete. At  best  they  themselves  must  be  only  a 
fragment  of  what  life  really  means  to  us ; and  this 
fragment  is  not  easy  to  disentangle  from  the  great 
complexity  of  which  it  forms  a part.  Until  it  is  dis- 
entangled, though ; until  in  our  own  minds  what  we 
wish  to  express  begins  to  stand  out  by  itself,  apart 
from  the  complexities  around  it,  — we  cannot  hope  to 
put  before  our  readers  any  symbol  that  shall  unmis- 
takably stand  for  it.  And  until  we  can  do  this,  we 
have  not  even  approached  the  point  where  we  can 
rationally  expect  our  style  to  be  clear. 

But  even  when  our  thinking  is  done,  when  we  know 
as  well  as  we  can  know  what  the  reality  is  that  our 
written  words  should  stand  for,  our  task  is  at  most 
only  half  done.  We  can  never  show  readers  the 
reality ; all  we  can  lay  before  their  eyes  are  those 
visible,  material  symbols,  — the  written  words.  And 
though  if  the  reality  be  vague  or  obscure  or  anywise 
confused,  the  written  words  will  almost  surely  reveal 
the  trouble,  it  is  by  no  means  true  that  if  the  reality 


214 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


be  a very  definite  thing  to  us,  our  words  will  so  show 
it  to  others. 

We  are  inquiring,  you  will  remember,  what  the 
average  man  — the  human  being  to  whom  our  style  is 
addressed  — may  be  expected  to  find  vague  or  am- 
biguous or  obscure.  Thought,  in  the  first  place,  that 
is  really  so,  we  discover ; at  moments  when  we  should 
like  the  average  man  to  fancy  us  more  intelligent 
than  we  are,  he  shows  a terrible  sanity.  And  in  the 
second  place,  any  kind  of  style  that  is  open  to  mis- 
conception. After  all,  though  he  is  aware  of  vague- 
ness or  obscurity  or  clearness,  as  an  impression  in 
his  own  mind,  the  impression  can  be  produced  only 
by  what  he  has  actually  seen,  — by  our  choice  and 
composition  of  visible,  written  words.  It  is  the  ele- 
ments of  style  that  have  produced  the  faulty  quality ; 
to  mend  the  quality,  we  must  mend  the  elements. 

My  experience  in  naming  this  book  — originally  a 
course  of  lectures  — is  a case  in  point.  I knew  pretty 
clearly  what  I was  going  to  say.  I did  not  know 
satisfactorily  what  name  would  best  inform  whoever 
thought  of  coming  to  the  lectures  whether  the  subject 
was  one  he  cared  about.  u Rhetoric”  was  one  name 
that  occurred  to  me.  I discarded  it  because  to  a great 
many  people  rhetoric  means  the  art  of  persuasion,  and 
to  a great  many  more  the  art  of  polite  embellishment 
of  language,  and  so  on.  “ Style  ” was  another  name 
I thought  of.  I discarded  it  for  somewhat  the  same 
reason;  as  I have  said  before,  the  word  frequently 
means  a certain  graceful  and  formal  turn  of  language. 


CLEARNESS. 


215 


“ The  Philosophy  of  Style  ” I discarded  as  too  pre- 
tentious : philosophy  is  a word  that  means  any  num- 
ber of  things,  grave  and  reverend ; but  what  I was 
about  was  a much  more  practical  matter  than  gener- 
ally comes  under  this  head.  Finally  I decided  that 
the  “ Art  of  Composition  ” would  cover  the  ground. 
Within  a.  few  weeks,  it  was  pointed  out  to  me  that  the 
name  in  question  was  open  to  misconception.  Some- 
body, it  appears,  who  had  seen  the  title,  had  inquired 
how  much  of  my  course  was  to  be  devoted  to  compo- 
sition in  sculpture ; other  people  might  be  trusted  to 
expect  something  about  architecture,  painting,  music. 
In  short,  the  “ Art  of  Composition  ” would  not  do.  I 
suggested  “ Literary  Composition.”  A friend  instantly 
pointed  out  that  anybody  might  properly  expect  under 
this  title  a discussion  of  how  various  kinds  of  litera- 
ture ought  to  be  put  together : a lecture  on  how  to 
compose  plays,  for  example,  novels,  biographies,  ser- 
mons, sonnets,  what  not.  I was  compelled  to  admit 
that  he  was  right.  I fell  back  at  last  on  the  not 
very  enticing  title,  “ English  Composition,”  which 
is  used  at  Harvard  College  to  describe  the  subject 
with  which  the  lectures  dealt.  Whatever  else  it 
was,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  still  seems,  unmistakably 
specific. 

In  each  case  here  I had  kept  well  within  the  limits 
of  good  use.  To  stray  beyond  them  is,  of  course, 
almost  always  to  run  the  risk  of  obscurity  ; for  as 
good  use  is  the  only  thing  that  makes  words  mean 
anything,  to  violate  good  use  is  very  possibly  to  use 


216 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


words  which  to  the  ordinary  man  will  mean  nothing 
at  all.  But  in  spite  of  this  prudence,  and  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  I knew  almost  exactly  what  was  to  be 
in  this  course  of  lectures,  it  was  no  easy  matter  to 
find  a name  that  should  properly  describe  them.  The 
trouble  with  each  of  the  earlier  names — “ Rhetoric,” 
“ Style,”  the  “ Art  of  Composition,”  and  so  on  — ■'  was 
that  while  they  undoubtedly  covered  the  matter  in 
hand,  they  covered  so  much  else  too  that  without 
explanatory  comment  they  might  well  lead  anybody 
to  expect  more  than  I had  to  offer.  In  other  words, 
these  names  were  too  general.  They  lacked  clear- 
ness because  they  were  by  no  means  as  specific  as 
the  thought  they  had  to  convey. 

And  yet  it  is  by  no  means  true  that  the  more 
minutely  specific  style  is,  the  clearer.  You  have  all 
seen,  I suppose,  a deed  of  real  estate,  or  perhaps,  in 
the  country,  or  in  the  newspapers,  the  advertisement 
of  some  executor’s  sale.  The  house  and  land  to  be 
disposed  of  is  very  likely  one  with  which  you  are  per- 
fectly familiar.  In  the  legal  paper  it  is  described 
with  a specific  minuteness  that  is  intended  to  exclude 
all  possibility  of  doubt  as  to  what  a purchaser  may 
acquire.  “ The  house  and  land  occupied  by  the  late 
A.  B.,”  for  example,  “ situated  on  such  a street, 
bounded  on  the  north  by  the  land  of  such  an  one,  on 
the  northeast  by  the  pasture  of  somebody  else  ; ” and 
so  on  for  a paragraph.  Nothing  could  be  more  spe- 
cific in  one  sense ; nothing  could  specify  more  par- 
ticulars in  the  same  space  ; nor  could  anything  convey 


CLEARNESS. 


217 


much  less  notion  to  a reader  not  on  the  spot.  I 
remember,  not  long  ago,  in  a country  store  seeing  a 
man  puzzling  over  a description  of  this  kind,  who 
finally  asked  if  it  did  not  mean  the  big  white  house 
opposite  the  Orthodox  Church.  For  legal  purposes 
that  last  phrase  would  not  do  at  all ; for  literary  pur- 
poses it  is  what  no  legal  paper  ever  was,  — clear  to  the 
average  man.  In  fact,  the  legal  description  is  very 
properly  more  specific  than  any  one’s  ordinary  thought 
of  the  place  in  question  would  be.  Its  purpose  is  not 
to  suggest  what  the  place  looks  like  ; but  if  possible, 
to  settle  once  for  all  any  dispute  concerning  dimen- 
sions, boundaries,  fixtures,  what  not.  The  human 
description,  on  the  other  hand,  aims  to  express  what 
the  place  in  question  would  seem  to  any  ordinary 
observer  ; and  any  ordinary  observer,  passing  down 
the  main  street,  would  see  just  a big  white  house 
opposite  a church. 

This  trouble  of  undue  specification  is  not  confined 
to  legal  documents.  Almost  any  novel  you  choose 
to  open  will  give  you  an  example  of  it  such  as  I 
constantly  meet  in  my  teaching.  At  some  period 
in  his  career  almost  every  undergraduate  is  seized 
with  the  idea  that  he  can  write  fiction,  and  proceeds 
to  submit  to  me  a story.  In  eight  or  nine  cases  out 
of  ten,  the  plot  of  this  story  concerns  the  flirtation 
of  a youth  of  twenty  with  a girl  of  eighteen  or  so  at 
a summer  hotel.  Generally  they  get  engaged.  Some- 
times they  quarrel  and  separate.  But  in  every  case 
there  is  a hero  whose  personal  appearance  we  are 


218 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


generally  allowed  to  infer,  and  a heroine  whose  per- 
sonal appearance  is  described  at  considerable  length. 
We  are  told  that  she  is  not  very  tall,  for  example, 
but  has  a perfect  figure ; that  she  has  great  masses 
of  golden  hair,  or  dark,  as  the  case  may  be ; deli- 
cately arched  eyebrows ; a nose  perhaps  the  least  bit 
retrousse ; a sensitive  mouth;  a very  fine  complexion, 
and  so  on,  often  for  a page  or  more.  This  kind  of 
thing  is  carefully  specific  : it  often  stands  for  a very 
definite  image  in  the  mind  of  the  writer ; but  it  never 
conveys  to  my  mind  — or  to  any  other  man’s  whom 
I have  plied  with  questions  — any  unmistakable  idea 
of  what  the  young  woman  in  question  looks  like. 
And  the  reason  is  very  simple  : as  a matter  of  fact, 
when  we  look  at  a pretty  girl,  we  are  aware  of  little 
else  than  that  she  is  so  pretty  that  it  is  a pleasure 
to  look.  We  take  in  at  a glance  the  combined  effect 
of  her  detailed  charms ; and  every  time  we  glance, 
we  take  in,  not  her  height  alone,  or  her  figure,  or 
her  hair,  or  her  eyebrows,  or  her  complexion,  but 
a fresh  impression  of  what  all  these  combined  look 
like.  To  analyze  her  appearance  in  detail  is  really 
to  do  just  what  lawyers  do  when  they  describe  a 
piece  of  property ; to  be  a great  deal  more  specific 
than  for  ordinary  human  purposes  the  thought  is 
which  we  are  trying  to  express.  In  short,  we  are 
in  some  degree  obscure  because  we  use  too  many 
words. 

In  the  Waverley  Novels  there  are  a good  many 
descriptions  of  persons  that  are  ineffective  for  this 


CLEARNESS. 


219 


very  reason.  The  description  of  Gurth,  the  swine- 
herd, in  the  first  chapter  of  “ Ivanhoe,”  is  a case  in 
point.  Admirably  specific  in  detail,  it  fails  to  call 
up  in  one’s  mind  a distinct  image  of  the  swineherd, 
just  because  it  is  far  more  specific  than  any  actual 
observation  by  an  ordinary  human  being  possibly 
could  be.  But  take  this  description  of  Oldbuck, 
from  the  first  chapter  of  the  u Antiquary  ” : — 

“ Our  youth  . . . amused  himself  ...  by  speculat- 
ing upon  the  occupation  and  character  of  the  person- 
age who  was  now  come  to  the  coach  office,”  it  begins. 
And  that  introductory  sentence  contains  a good  part 
of  the  secret  that  makes  what  follows  effective.  It 
does  what  is  so  often  neglected  in  descriptions : it 
defines  the  point  of  view  and  the  spectator.  We  know 
through  whose  eyes  we  are  supposed  to  look,  and  in 
what  mood : a youth,  for  the  moment  idle,  wonders 
who  an  approaching  stranger  may  be  ; and  this  is 
what  he  sees  : — 

u He  was  a good-looking  man  of  the  age  of  sixty,  per- 
haps older,  but  his  hale  complexion  and  firm  step  an- 
nounced that  years  had  not  impaired  his  strength  or 
health.  His  countenance  was  of  the  true  Scottish  cast, 
strongly  marked,  and  rather  harsh  in  features,  with  a 
shrewd  and  penetrating  eye,  and  a countenance  in  which 
habitual  gravity  was  enlivened  by  a cast  of  ironical 
humour.  His  dress  was  uniform,  and  of  a color  becom- 
ing his  age  and  gravity ; a wig,  well  dressed  and  pow- 
dered, surmounted  by  a slouched  hat,  had  something  of 
a professional  air.” 


220 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


Just  such  details,  you  observe,  as  an  ordinary  eye, 
curiously  observing  a stranger,  might  rest  on.  Now 
comes  the  first  conclusions  that  an  ordinary  observer 
might' probably  draw  : — 

“ He  might  be  a clergyman,  yet  his  appearance  was 
more  that  of  a man  of  the  world  than  usually  belongs  to 
the  Kirk  of  Scotland ; and  his  first  ejaculation  put  the 
matter  beyond  doubt.  He  arrived  with  a hurried  pace, 
and  casting  an  alarmed  glance  toward  the  dial-plate  of 
the  church,  then  looking  at  the  place  where  the  coach 
should  have  been,  exclaimed,  ‘Deil’s  in  it ! I am  too 
late  after  all ! ’ ” 

Try  for  yourselves  to  describe  a figure  contempo- 
rary with  the  Antiquary  that  you  all  know,  — the 
figure  of  George  Washington.  Then  you  will  see 
for  yourselves  how  admirably  clear  that  description 
of  Scott’s  is.  His  words  are  just  specific  enough  to 
convey  the  impression  that  a casual  observer  would 
receive ; and  by  assuming  for  the  moment  the  point 
of  view  of  this  definite  casual  observer,  he  has  justified 
the  use  of  just  about  as  many  words  as  he  employs. 

But  as  frequently  happens  with  Scott,  who  wrote 
very  fast,  there  is  in  that  description  one  slip  which 
though  not  serious  here,  well  might  be.  “ His  coun- 
tenance,” says  Scott,  “ was  of  the  true  Scottish  cast,” 
and  so  on ; and  a minute  later,  — in  the  same  sen- 
tence, — was  of  “ a countenance  in  which  habitual 
gravity  was  enlivened  by  a cast  of  ironical  humour.” 
In  the  first  place,  countenance  perfectly  properly 


CLEARNESS. 


221 


means  face  ; in  the  second,  countenance , with  almost 
equal  propriety,  means  expression.  In  a single  sen- 
tence, Scott  has  used  the  same  word  in  two  distinct 
senses. 

Unimportant  in  this  case,  such  a carelessness  might 
in  another  kind  of  writing  lead  to  hopeless  obscurity. 
At  this  moment,  for  example,  a friend  of  mine  is 
engaged  in  a study  of  the  romantic  spirit  in  English 
literature.  Now,  romantic  is  a word  that  is  very  care- 
lessly used.  Sometimes  it  means  something  very  like 
mediaeval,  or  perhaps  rather,  pseudo-mediaeval,  apply- 
ing to  the  sort  of  temper  that  likes,  in  a comfortable 
armchair,  to  contemplate  what  was  picturesque  in 
the  Middle  Ages.  Sometimes  it  means  sentimental, 
applying  to  the  temper  that  finds  most  delight  in  sad 
music  by  moonlight.  Sometimes  it  applies  to  that 
very  marked  movement  in  French  literature,  a gen- 
eration or  two  ago,  which  found  its  most  notable  ex- 
ponent in  Victor  Hugo.  My  friend  knows  perfectly 
well  what  he  is  in  search  of ; bat  before  he  can  with 
certainty  write  an  account  of  his  researches,  he 
must  in  the  first  place  frame  a definition  of  roman- 
tic, and  then  throughout  his  book  or  essay  use  the 
term  romantic  in  no  sense  except  that  in  which  he 
has  defined  it. 

An  admirable  example  of  what  I mean  presented 
itself  in  a book  I was  lately  reading.  The  title  of 
the  book  is,  “ The  Public  and  Men  of  Letters  in  Eng- 
land.” Almost  the  first  words  of  the  Preface  are 
these  : “ By  man  of  letters  I mean  a writer  who  lives 


222 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


by  his  pen.  ...  By  public  I mean  . . . people  , . . 
who  read  and  buy  books.”  And  having  thus  defined 
his  chief  terms,  the  author  uses  them  in  no  other 
sense  throughout  his  volume. 

We  have  seen  enough,  I take  it,  to  understand  now 
the  fundamental  meaning  of  the  many  different  direc- 
tions concerning  clearness  in  the  use  of  words  which 
fill  the  textbooks.  Let  your  words  be  as  specific  as 
the  thoughts  they  express ; for  example,  when  you 
mean,  “ We  lunched,”  do  not  say,  UA  lunch  was 
eaten.”  Use  no  more  words  than  you  can  justify. 
When  a word  has  more  than  one  possible  meaning, 
so  place  it  that  all  but  the  meaning  you  intend  shall 
be  excluded  ; when  threatened  with  lack  of  clearness, 
do  not  hesitate  to  define.  I might  go  on  almost  as 
long  as  I chose.  In  brief,  these  seem  to  mean  that 
we  may  assume  the  average  man  to  know  what  good 
use  is  ; but  that  inasmuch  as  good  use  has  defined  a 
vastly  smaller  number  of  words  than  we  have  ideas  to 
express,  we  must  be  eternally  watchful  in  the  first 
place  to  make  each  word  do  all  the  work  that  good 
use  warrants  it  in  doing,  and  in  the  second  place,  to 
supplement  good  use  in  every  needful  case  with  care- 
ful definition  of  the  precise  phase  of  good  use  which  in 
a given  case  we  have  in  mind.  Otherwise  the  average 
man,  whom  we  are  always  addressing,  may  well  miss 
our  meaning. 

We  may  turn  now  to  the  larger  elements  of  style, — 
to  words  in  composition,  sentences,  paragraphs,  and 
wholes.  At  one  time  it  was  my  fortune  to  read  a 


CLEARNESS. 


223 


good  deal  of  law ; and  even  after  I had  learned  what 
the  technical  terms  meant,  I found  the  greatest 
trouble  in  understanding  the  books.  I open  one  of 
them  now  at  random,  and  find  the  following  passage 
in  an  opinion  delivered  by  an  English  court  in  the 
year  1842.  “The  plea,”  it  begins,  “is  a plea  of  set- 
off.” So  far  as  it  goes,  that  sentence  is  clear ; what 
we  wish  to  know  now  is  what  a plea  of  set-off  is. 
This  the  next  sentence  proceeds,  very  properly,  to 
define,  but  to  define  only  as  follows : — 

“ Such  a plea  operates  as  a bar  to  the  plaintiff’s  right 
of  action,  not  by  excusing  or  justifying  the  breach  of 
promise  complained  of  in  the  declaration,  but,  whilst  it 
admits  such  breach  to  have  been  committed,  by  setting 
up,  as  a matter  of  compensation,  the  cross-demand  of  the 
defendant  . . . ; and  it  is  unnecessary  to  observe,  that 
an  ordinary  plea  of  set-off  cannot  be  met  by  the  general 
traverse,  but  only  by  a special  traverse,  or  denial  of  the 
existence  of  the  cross-demand ; and,  upon  another  and 
distinct  ground,  the  replication  upon  this  record  is  inap- 
plicable to  the  present  case ; for  in  those  instances  in 
which  the  plea  goes  only  to  matter  of  excuse  or  justifica- 
tion, and  when,  consequently,  the  general  traverse  is 
allowed,  there  is  engrafted  an  exception,  that,  where  the 
plea  justifies  under  any  authority,  or  command,  or  license 
from  the  plaintiff,  the  general  replication  is  not  good 
without  a special  traverse  of  such  command,  license,  or 
authority  — ” 

I have  quoted  less  than  half  of  the  sentence  in  which 
the  learned  judge  defines  a plea  of  set-off.  It  is  enough 


224 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


for  our  purposes : to  quote  further  were  needlessly 
malicious  to  the  judge  and  to  you  alike.  Already  we 
are  far  beyond  the  point  where  any  ordinary  human 
being  retains  the  slightest  idea  of  what  all  this  means. 

Be'wilderingly  long,  that  learned  sentence,  and  in 
spite  of  the  laborious  periodicity  of  its  clauses,  bewil- 
deringly  loose, — each  clause  being  apparently  complete 
in  itself.  But  its  chief  fault  is  a simple  question  of 
principle  : it  strays  far  beyond  the  limits  of  unity.  It 
groups  itself,  to  be  sure,  about  the  one  central  idea  of 
a plea  of  set-off ; but  it  treats  this  idea  on  a scale 
which  no  average  human  being  could  possibly  think 
too  small  for  a paragraph.  Omitting  only  pure  re- 
dundance, otherwise  altering  the  sentence  only  by 
substituting  periods  for  semicolons,  let  me  show  it  to 
you  again : — 

“ Such  a plea  operates  as  a bar  to  the  plaintiff’s  right 
of  action,  not  by  excusing  or  justifying  the  breach  of 
promise  complained  of,  but  by  setting  up,  as  a matter  of 
compensation,  the  cross-demand  of  the  defendant.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  observe  that  an  ordinary  plea  of  set-off 
can  be  met  only  by  a special  traverse,  or  denial  of  the 
existence  of  the  cross-demand.  Upon  another  distinct 
ground,  the  replication  upon  this  record  is  inapplicable  to 
the  present  case.  In  instances  where  the  plea  goes  only 
to  matter  of  excuse  or  justification,  and  consequently  the 
general  traverse  is  allowed,  there  is  one  exception.”  And 
so  on. 

In  that  second  form  I have  not  altered  the  words, 
some  of  which  are  distinctly  technical.  I am  much 


CLEARNESS. 


225 


deceived,  however,  if  that  second  form  is  not  distinctly 
clearer  than  the  first.  To  most  human  beings,  the 
first,  on  a single  reading  or  hearing,  would  he  merely 
a collection  of  impressive  words ; the  second,  I be- 
lieve, would  suggest  something  resembling  a meaning. 
Now,  the  only  difference  between  the  two  is  that  in 
the  first  form  the  sentence  strays  far  beyond  unity ; 
and  that  in  the  second  form  unity  of  sentence  is 
carefully  preserved. 

To  alter  the  technical  terms  would  very  likely  have 
been  to  impair  the  legal  precision  of  the  opinion  ; 
but  no  such  result  can  follow  from  merely  limiting 
the  sentences  to  single  statements.  And  I am  much 
in  error  if  just  such  simple  treatment  as  this  would 
not  go  far  to  clear  the  bewildering  obscurity  of  so 
much  technical  writing  in  law  and  in  all  the  other 
arts  and  sciences.  If  people  engaged  in  serious 
writing  would  only  keep  in  mind  the  principle  of 
Unity  — that  every  composition  should  group  itself 
about  one  central  idea  — serious  writing  would  lose 
some  of  its  most  potent  terrors. 

Unity,  however,  is  not  the  only  principle  that  tech- 
nical writers  serenely  violate.  Not  long  ago,  a friend 
sent  me  a sentence  from  a respectable  legal  periodical. 
He  described  it  as  “ a beautiful  specimen  of  legal 
English  ; ” and  here  it  is : — 

“ The  comparatively  recent  introduction  of  sleeping- 
cars  upon  the  great  highways  of  travel,  as  a means  of 
public  conveyance,  while  it  marks  a new  era  in  the  history 
of  common  carriers  of  passengers,  and  signalizes  the 


15 


226 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


advancement  of  the  age  in  the  attainment  of  the  luxuries 
of  refinement  and  wealth,  yet  on  account  of  the  unique 
and  peculiar  features  of  the  system  as  it  exists,  both  with 
reference  to  the  railroads  that  employ  them,  and  to  the 
travelling  public  that  enjoy  their  superior  comforts  and 
facilities,  there  have  arisen  interesting  questions  of  law, 
touching  the  responsibility  of  such  companies,  for  the  loss 
or  theft  of  the  goods,  luggage,  and  valuables  of  passen- 
gers, upon  which  there  exist,  among  the  bench  and  bar, 
an  undesirable,  and,  it  would  seem,  needless  amount  of 
uncertainty,  not  to  say,  diversity  of  legal  sentiment.” 

It  would  be  hard  to  find,  in  equal  space,  a less  simple 
example  of  obscurity.  The  thought,  in  the  first  place, 
is  so  far  from  disentangled  from  its  surroundings  that 
in  the  midst  of  what  purports  to  be  a discussion  of  the 
legal  rights  of  travellers  in  sleeping-cars,  we  have 
already  been  twice  reminded  that  sleeping-cars  are 
luxurious  and  comfortable,  — at  least  in  the  opinion 
of  the  writer.  In  the  second  place,  his  words  are  at 
once  vague  and  too  many,  — “ unique  and  peculiar 
features,”  for  example  ; whatever  is  unique , in  this 
sense,  must  be  peculiar.  Yet  neither  of  these  tautolo- 
gous  words  in  the  slightest  degree  specifies  what  the 
writer  probably  had  in  mind  namely,  that  the  sleep- 
ing-car is  not  owned  by  the  corporation  over  whose 
lines  it  travels,  and  that  passengers  in  sleeping-cars 
are  therefore  in  a different  relation  to  the  corporation 
which  has  sold  them  tickets  from  that  of  passengers 
in  cars  which  belong  to  the  company.  So  “ goods, 
luggage,  and  valuables  ” is  simply  a prolix  phrase  for 


CLEARNESS. 


227 


“ property.”  In  the  third  place,  the  confusion  of 
thought  which  dragged  in  those  needless  remarks 
about  refinement  and  luxury  evidently  deprives  the 
sentence  of  unity;  and  though,  when  these  are  once 
left  out,  something  resembling  unity  remains,  it  seems 
probable  that  two  or  three  more  limited  sentences 
would  have  clearer  unity.  In  the  fourth  place,  inco- 
herence of  construction  has  gone  so  far  that  the  sen- 
tences cannot  possibly  be  parsed.  “ The  comparatively 
recent  introduction  of  sleeping-cars,”  it  begins  ; and 
for  about  half  its  length  this  term  is  treated  as  a 
grammatical  subject.  But  by  and  by  the  writer,  like 
the  rest  of  us,  has  quite  forgotten  how  he  began,  and 
serenely  begins  again,  “ yet  on  account  of  ” — some- 
thing that  fills  two  lines  — “ there  have  arisen  inter- 
esting questions  of  law,”  and  so  on.  The  only 
principle  that  he  has  not  utterly  violated  is  that  of 
Mass  ; his  last  few  words  are  really  words  that  deserve 
distinction. 

Nothing  but  complete  recasting  can  cure  all  these 
troubles  ; but  complete  recasting  will  not  only  cure 
them,  but  also  reveal  that  what  the  writer  had  to  say 
was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  this  perfectly  intelli- 
gible thing : — 

“ Sleeping-cars,  comparative  novelties  on  railways,  have 
given  rise  to  interesting  questions  of  law.  Not  the  prop- 
erty of  the  railways  that  employ  them,  they  are  yet  the 
only  vehicles  in  which  many  passengers  on  these  railways 
travel.  If  property  of  these  passengers  be  lost  or  stolen, 
who  is  responsible?  On  this  point  there  is  undesirable 
and  perhaps  needless  diversity  of  legal  sentiment.” 


228 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


In  the  original  form  there  was  one  sentence  — or 
at  least  one  collection  of  words  which  the  writer 
apparently  supposed  to  be  a sentence  — containing 
one  hundred  and  thirty-eight  words ; yet  there  was  no 
distinct  intimation  of  what  the  “ unique  and  peculiar  ” 
features  of  sleeping-cars  were.  In  the  second  form 
there  are  four  grammatical  sentences,  but  only  sixty- 
two  words.  Yet  in  less  than  half  the  space,  we  have 
managed  to  state  the  writer’s  meaning  with  some- 
thing like  clearness,  and  this  chiefly  by  applying 
to  the  matter  in  hand  the  principles  of  Unity  and 
of  Coherence. 

I have  purposely  taken  these  examples  from  writ- 
ing of  a practical  rather  than  of  a literary  kind,  be- 
cause I believe  the  matters  we  are  discussing,  though 
fundamentally  important  in  literature  itself,  to  be  of 
far  higher  practical  importance  than  practical  men 
are  commonly  willing  to  believe.  If  the  learned 
judge  who  laid  down  the  law  about  pleas  of  set-off 
had  given  a little  attention  to  the  principle  of  Unity, 
he  would  have  bettered  his  opinion  without  hurting 
his  law ; at  all  events,  he  would  have  said  exactly 
what  he  did  say,  but  in  such  a manner  that  an  ordi- 
nary human  being  could  understand  that  he  was  utter- 
ing something  other  than  a string  of  technical  words. 
If  the  gentleman  who  wrote  about  sleeping-cars  had 
given  the  principles  of  composition  a tenth  part  of 
the  consideration  he  gave  the  legal  questions  in  hand, 
he  might,  by  the  simple  exercise  of  good  sense,  have 
produced  an  essay  that  an  ordinary  human  being  could 


CLEARNESS. 


229 


read.  And  such  an  essay,  and  such  an  opinion,  would 
seem  to  me  incalculably  more  efficacious  than  the  be- 
wildering slovenly  masses  of  words  in  which  these 
jurists,  like  many  other  serious  people  in  all  sorts  of 
discourse,  were  content  to  bury  their  meaning. 

In  plenty  of  writing  that  purports  to  be  literature, 
however,  you  will  find  examples  almost  as  appalling, 
yet  just  as  easily  cured.  To  come  back  to  our  aver- 
age man,  we  may  conclude  from  what  we  have  seen 
that  in  sentences  as  well  as  in  words  he  may  be 
assumed  to  know  what  good  use  is,  and  within  the 
limits  of  good  use,  to  appreciate,  even  though  he  do 
not  perceive,  the  results  that  follow  judicious  applica- 
tions of  the  principles  of  composition.  The  detailed 
suggestions  about  sentences  that  you  will  find  in  the 
books  reduce  themselves  to  this.  We  are  told  that 
short  sentences  are  generally  better  than  long ; that 
it  is  well  to  make  style  as  periodic  as  is  consistent 
with  idiomatic  freedom,  and  so  on.  In  brief,  the 
clearest  style  is  commonly  a style  in  whose  sentences 
the  principles  of  composition  are  observed.  In  a 
style  where  they  are  disregarded,  the  average  man, 
whom  we  are  always  addressing,  may  well  miss  our 
meaning. 

The  larger  elements  of  style  — paragraphs  and 
whole  compositions  — are  too  bulky  for  special  consid- 
eration here ; but  in  our  consideration  of  the  separate 
elements  we  saw  enough,  I hope,  to  satisfy  ourselves 
that  the  principles  which  apply  to  them  are  the  same 
that  apply  to  those  simpler  compositions,  sentences. 


230 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


We  saw,  for  example,  how  instinctively  people  prefer  a 
style  in  which  the  paragraphs  are  reasonably  short,  — 
conversation  where  each  speech  is  given  a paragraph 
by  itself,  to  conversation  such  as  you  find  in  old- 
fashioned  books,  where  a dozen  speeches  are  run 
into  a single  paragraph.  In  brief,  this  is  because 
the  one  is  a great  deal  easier  to  understand  than 
the  other,  — a great  deal  clearer.  And  I shall  ask 
you  to  believe  that  a style  whose  paragraphs  com- 
monly conform  to  the  principles  of  composition  — a 
style  like  Burke’s,  for  example,  or  “ The  Nation’s  ” — 
is  almost  inestimably  superior  as  a vehicle  of  thought 
to  a style  in  whose  paragraphs  the  principles  are  dis- 
regarded. Beyond  doubt,  whoever  has  had  much  ex- 
perience will  agree  that  the  same  is  true  of  whole 
compositions.  A composition  whose  unity  has  been 
assured  by  a preliminary  plan,  whose  proportions 
have  been  settled  by  a discriminating  application  to 
this  plan  of  the  principle  of  Mass,  whose  coherence  is 
preserved  by  making  unmistakable  the  relation  of 
each  paragraph  to  its  predecessor,  is  a composition 
that  will  prove  incredibly  clearer  than  one  whose 
form  is  left  to  chance,  impulse,  or  inspiration. 

The  truth  is  that  this  art  of  composition,  like  any 
other,  is  one  that  must  be  practised  with  deliberate 
coolness.  Accidental  effects  any  one  may  sometimes 
secure  ; but  the  certainty  of  touch  which  marks  the 
difference  between  the  artist  and  the  dabbler  is  a 
trait  that  can  come  only  after  patient  study  and  mas- 
tery of  one’s  self  and  one’s  vehicle  of  expression.  The 


CLEARNESS. 


231 


first  thing,  1 believe,  for  any  writer  to  do  is  as  calmly 
as  he  can  to  face  the  complicated  mass  of  thought 
and  emotion  that  he  wishes  to  express,  and  to  ask 
himself  what  effect  he  wishes  to  produce.  In  some 
cases  this  may  be  an  effect  of  vagueness,  of  indecision, 
of  confusion,  of  mystery  ; if  so,  his  business  is  to  con- 
sider how  he  may  best  use  the  elements  of  style  to 
arouse  in  a reader  such  sentiments  as  these.  But  it 
is  not  often  that  one  seriously  wishes  to  do  this. 
Oftener,  by  far,  one  wishes  so  to  express  one’s  self 
that  there  is  the  least  possible  chance  of  misunder- 
standing. Indeed,  by  a very  slight  play  on  words,  we 
can  say  that  one  always  wishes  so  to  express  one’s 
self ; for  if  what  one  have  seriously  in  mind  be  vague, 
or  confused,  or  mysterious,  then  the  clearest  possible 
expression  of  it  should  express  vagueness,  confusion, 
mystery.  Whatever  one’s  motive,  indeed,  one  should 
first  look  it  in  the  face,  and  learn,  so  far  as  may  be, 
to  know  it. 

Then  comes  the  actual  task  of  composition.  We 
turn  to  the  elements  of  style, — these  words,  these  ar- 
bitrary sounds,  to  which  good  use  has  given  so  vast 
and  subtile  a significance, — and  ask  ourselves  how  with 
these  we  may  put  before  others  than  ourselves  these 
things  that  we  ourselves  know.  Our  first  object  is  so 
to  express  them  that  they  cannot  be  misunderstood, — 
to  give  our  style  the  quality  of  clearness.  We  find 
before  us,  then,  a very  definite  question : Is  there  in 
the  elements  of  style  any  trait  that  is  favorable  to 
this  quality  ? 


232 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


There  is  no  need  of  repeating  in  detail  what  we 
have  already  considered  more  than  once.  You  will 
remember  that  in  our  study  of  the  elements  — of 
words,  of  sentences,  and  of  paragraphs  and  wholes, 
too  — we  saw  that  the  vast  complexity  of  thought 
and  emotion  which  clamors  for  expression  by  these 
few  thousands  of  words  that  are  at  our  disposal 
makes  every  word  we  use  do  a double  work ; and  if 
every  word  by  itself  do  this  double  work,  far  more 
must  words  do  it  in  composition.  In  the  first  place, 
every  word  we  use  names  an  idea;  in  the  second 
place,  along  with  the  idea  it  names,  it  suggests,  with 
more  or  less  distinctness,  a certain  number  of  others. 
What  it  names  we  say  it  denotes ; what  it  suggests  it 
connotes. 

In  the  nature  of  things,  these  traits  are  not  sepa- 
rable. The  connotation  of  every  word  must  cling  to 
it  as  closely  as  in  our  daily  life  color  enlivens  and 
varies  every  form  our  eyes  rest  on.  Take  three  words, 
woman , wife,  mother , which  may  well  apply  to  the 
same  human  being.  Nothing  could  make  them  mean 
quite  the  same  thing ; nothing  could  deprive  each  of 
the  connotation  peculiarly  its  own.  So  denotation  and 
connotation,  though  separate  traits  of  the  elements  of 
style,  are  not  separable.  And  we  may  not  say  that 
when  we  attend  to  the  one  we  may  quite  disregard 
the  other ; but  we  may  say,  with  a certainty  that 
will  grow  with  experience,  that  we  may  attend  chiefly 
to  the  one. 

We  denote,  as  somebody  has  expressed  it,  what 


CLEARNESS. 


238 


we  say  ; we  connote  wliat  we  leave  unsaid.  The  two 
traits  must  combine  in  the  effect  that  we  ultimately 
produce ; but  when  we  write  with  clearness  in  view, 
when  we  wish  so  to  express  ourselves  that  first  of  all 
we  shall  not  be  misunderstood,  it  is  one  of  these  traits 
and  not  the  other  on  which  we  should  concentrate 
our  attention.  Of  our  words  we  should  ask  ourselves 
first  of  all  what  they  name ; of  our  sentences,  what 
they  mean ; and  so  of  our  paragraphs  and  our  whole 
compositions.  I have  said  enough,  I hope,  to  make 
this  , final  sentence  clear:  the  secret  of  clearness  lies 
in  denotation. 


VII. 


FORCE. 

The  emotional  quality  of  style,  to  which  we  come 
now,  is  far  more  subtile.  In  the  first  place,  its  aspects 
are  so  various  that  in  many  of  the  textbooks  it  is 
described  not  as  a single  quality,  but  as  a great  num- 
ber of  separate  ones,  varying  literally  from  the  ridicu- 
lous to  che  sublime.  In  order  fully  to  understand 
what  we  are  considering,  then,  we  shall  do  well,  be- 
fore we  attempt  a definition,  to  recall  various  exam- 
ples of  the  quality ; to  know,  in  a general  way,  what 
the  general  impression  is  that  we  wish  to  define. 

In  reading  anything,  or  indeed  in  listening  to  any 
prolonged  speech,  we  are  all  aware  of  something  more 
than  the  literal  facts  or  ideas  which  the  words  ex- 
press. These  general  impressions,  indeed,  are  the  chief 
things  of  which  in  ordinary  reading  we  are  conscious. 
In  reading  “ Pickwick,”  for  example,  or  one  of  Mark 
Twain’s  better  books,  we  can  give  no  very  distinct 
account  of  exactly  what  the  book  told  us ; but  we  are 
very  sure  that  it  made  us  laugh,  and  we  very  properly 
call  the  book  humorous.  The  death  of  Colonel  New- 
come  brings  tears  to  the  eyes  of  a great  many  people 
by  no  means  lachrymose  in  habit ; and  within  a very 


FORCE. 


235 


few  years  I have  seen  people  still  similarly  affected 
by  that  death  of  Clarissa  Harlowe  that  set  all  England 
to  crying  in  George  the  Second’s  time.  Take,  almost 
at  random,  a couplet  or  two  from  Pope ; these  are  about 
the  poor:  — 

“ 1 God  cannot  love  ’ (says  Blunt,  with  tearless  eyes) 

‘ The  wretch  he  starves’ — and  piously  denies  ; 

But  the  good  Bishop,  with  a meeker  air, 

Admits,  and  leaves  them,  Providence’s  care.” 

You  feel  the  satirical  power  here ; it  is  the  same 
quality  that  in  a far  deeper  form  makes  “ Gulliver  ” so 
terribly  fascinating.  Take  any  of  the  papers  in  the 
“ Spectator  ” that  deal  with  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley ; you 
will  find  in  it  a delicately  well-bred  humor  — a sym- 
pathetic sense  of  what  life  is  in  some  of  its  smaller 
aspects  — that  will  pretty  surely  delight  you.  In  the 
novels  of  Walter  Scott,  in  many  of  the  tales  of  Mr. 
Stevenson,  there  is  a very  distinct  trait  that  without 
analyzing  we  call  romantic,  and  that  many  of  us  are 
still  able  to  enjoy.  In  modern  novels  there  is  often 
a profound  sense  of  fact  which  seems  for  the  moment 
to  give  these  fictions  a serious  and  lasting  signifi- 
cance. In  writers  that  many  of  us  do  not  pretend 
to  understand  — in  Carlyle,  in  Browning,  in  Shelley 
— many  of  us  feel  an  individuality  perhaps  more 
stimulating  than  if  we  were  able  to  make  out  pre- 
cisely its  components.  In  the  literature  that  every 
one  admits  to  be  great  — in  the  tragedies  of  Shak- 
spere,  in  the  nobler  passages  of  Milton,  to  go  no 
further  — we  find  a spirit  that  can  be  described  by 


236 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


no  lesser  word  than  sublime.  One  might  go  on  in- 
terminably, recalling  the  enormously  varied  impres- 
sions that  the  literature  we  care  about  makes  on  us. 
If  we  are  sensitive  enough,  every  writer  who  is  worth 
the  name  will  make  an  impression  peculiarly  his  own. 
If  we  are  sensible  enough,  we  shall  enjoy,  or  at  least 
try  to  enjoy,  each  of  these  impressions  in  its  own  way. 
But  our  business  with  them  now  is  not  to  separate 
or  to  enjoy  them ; it  is  to  realize  how  many  and  how 
various  they  are,  and  then  to  inquire  what  trait  they 
have  in  common.  For  the  quality  of  style  before  us 
— the  emotional  quality  to  which  I give  the  name 
“ force  ” — includes  them  all. 

In  truth,  I believe  these  various  qualities,  differ- 
ent as  they  seem,  possess  in  common  a trait  more 
significantly  characteristic  than  their  differences.  One 
and  all,  they  hold  the  attention  of  a reader.  Force, 
then,  the  emotional  quality  of  style,  I may  define  as 
the  distinguishing  quality  of  a style  that  holds  the 
attention. 

Of  course,  like  clearness,  force  is  in  some  degree  a 
relative  quality.  What  will  interest  one  man  will 
quite  fail  to  interest  another.  Mr.  Darwin,  you  re- 
member, could  find  nothing  in  Shakspere ; and  it  is 
not  improbable  that  many  people  of  a literary  turn 
would  fail  to  find  anything  in  the  works  of  Mr.  Darwin. 
And  we  have  all  heard  intelligent  people  eagerly  dis- 
puting as  to  whether  a given  book  is  interesting  or 
not.  I remember  such  a dispute  last  summer  about 
a novel  called  “ Sir  Charles  Danvers,”  which  impressed 


FORCE. 


237 


me  as  tiresome  ; but  to  call  it  tiresome  when  the  rest 
of  the  company  had  actually  enjoyed  it  was  simply  to 
utter  an  absurdity.  The  fact  that  they  enjoyed  it 
showed  that  to  many  sane  human  beings  it  was  not 
tiresome  at  all.  Nothing,  in  fact,  can  be  trusted  to 
hold  everybody’s  attention ; nothing  even  with  cer- 
tainty to  bore  everybody.  But  though  in  this  matter 
it  is  perhaps  harder  than  in  the  matter  of  clearness 
to  appeal  to  the  average  man,  I believe  that  we  may 
safely  say  that  'what  will  hold  the  attention  of  the 
average  man  — of  the  ordinary  human  being  — is  in 
most  respects  a better  piece  of  work  than  what  will 
appeal  only  to  a single  class.  To  fastidious  people 
there  will  always  be  a charm  about  what  other  people 
do  not  know  enough  to  appreciate : herein,  I believe, 
lies  half  the  secret  of  academic  pedantry.  To  people 
not  of  a fastidious  turn  there  will  always  be  a less 
holy,  if  not  less  inhumane,  charm  in  horrors,  and 
broad  jokes,  really  shocking  to  others.  But  now  and 
then  you  will  find  something  that  appeals  to  coarse 
people  and  fastidious  alike.  Perhaps  as  notable  an 
example,  in  a small  way,  of  what  I mean  as  has  ap- 
peared of  late  years  are  the  earlier  operas  of  Gilbert 
and  Sullivan.  There  was  something  in  them  that 
filled  our  theatres  for  months  with  popular  audiences ; 
and  something,  too,  which  very  honestly  delighted  a 
class  of  people  who  find  what  generally  pleases  popu- 
lar audiences  utterly  abominable.  There  have  been 
verses  and  music  enough  meantime  highly  edifying 
to  the  elect ; and  there  have  been  things  they  called 


238 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


comic  operas  by  the  dozen,  highly  profitable  to  thea- 
tres of  the  lower  sort.  But  in  their  own  little  way, 
“ Pinafore  ” and  the  “ Pirates  of  Penzance  ” and  “ Pa- 
tience ” were  a great  deal  more  forcible,  in  the  sense 
in  which  I use  the  term,  than  the  works  called  better, 
and  the  works  admitted  to  be  worse,  each  of  which 
appealed  to  the  emotions  of  only  one  of  the  classes 
who  joined  in  enjoying  these.  Always  remembering, 
then,  that  the  average  man  is  not  a vulgar  fellow,  but 
a man  who  combines  the  traits  common  to  gentle  and 
to  vulgar  alike,  we  may  safely  say  that  the  most  forci- 
ble writing  is  that  which  holds  the  attention  of  the 
average  man. 

If  we  were  not  given  so  constantly  to  forgetting 
things  that  we  know  perfectly  well,  it  would  seem  al- 
most needless  to  repeat  what  I repeat  now.  We  are 
aware  of  the  force  of  a given  piece  of  style  only  as  an 
impression,  — though  an  impression,  to  be  sure,  of 
which  we  are  very  keenly  aware.  At  a given  moment 
our  wits  may  be  so  lazy  that  we  cannot  say  certainly 
whether  we  understand  what  is  said  to  us  or  not ; but 
there  are  few  moments  in  life  when  we  do  not  know 
whether  or  not  we  are  bored.  Any  piece  of  style  sub- 
mitted to  us  will  interest  us  — will  hold  our  attention 
— or  not ; and  this  matter  of  emotional  impression,  this 
question  of  whether  we  are  interested  or  bored,  is  at 
once  so  much  more  palpable  and  so  much  more  subtile 
a thing  than  the  matter  of  intellectual  impression  — 
the  question  of  whether  or  not  we  understand  a thing  — 
that  we  are  apt  to  forget  how  it  comes  to  us.  Yet,  as 


FORCE. 


239 


we  have  reminded  ourselves  now  with  perhaps  tedious 
frequency,  a given  piece  of  style  presents  to  our  eyes 
only  certain  arbitrary  marks,  which  common  consent 
makes  symbolic  of  certain  arbitrary  sounds,  which 
common  consent  in  turn  makes  symbolic  of  certain 
more  or  less  definite  phases  of  thought  and  emotion. 
In  other  words,  as  we  have  said  more  than  once,  the 
only  means  by  which  the  qualities  of  style  can  be 
conveyed  from  writer  to  reader  are  the  elements. 
Force,  then,  just  as  surely  as  clearness,  must  be 
sought,  and  sought  only,  in  the  elements.  The  ques- 
tion before  us  becomes  very  definite  : What  trait  in 
the  elements  of  style  — in  words,  alone  or  in  compo- 
sition — is  favorable  to  force  ? 

One  trait,  in  general,  I believe,  may  safely  be  urged 
as  frequently  favorable  to  it ; and  that  is  the  trait  we 
particularly  considered  in  the  last  lecture,  — denota- 
tion, the  trait  that  is  chiefly  favorable  to  clearness. 
The  textbook  of  Rhetoric  which  I have  found  most 
suggestive  — Professor  Adams  Hill’s  — defines  force 
as  the  distinguishing  quality  of  a style  that  is  efficient 
for  the  purpose  in  hand.  Less  satisfactory  to  me,  be- 
cause less  specific,  than  the  definition  I have  offered 
you,  this  of  Professor  Hill’s  is  extremely  suggestive 
at  the  point  we  have  now  reached.  We  have  seen  al- 
ready that  the  cases  where  a writer  wishes  not  to  be 
clear  are  far  less  common  than  the  cases  where  he 
wishes  to  be  thoroughly  understood.  If  clearness  be 
his  purpose,  then  any  style  which  is  not  clear  must 
for  his  purpose  be  inefficient,  and  so,  by  Professor 


240 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


Hill’s  definition,  lacking  in  force.  Almost  any  one 
of  the  examples  I offered  you  in  the  last  chapter 
— the  vague  or  ambiguous  words,  the  long  involved 
sentences  of  the  lawyers  who  so  serenely  disregard 
unity  and  coherence  alike  — is  as  remote  from  force 
as  from  clearness.  And  though  we  cannot  say  that 
what  is  vague  or  ambiguous  or  obscure  will  for  that 
reason  fail  to  hold  the  attention,  we  may  safely  say  in 
general  that  what  is  clear  is  very  much  more  apt  to 
hold  it. 

But  very  obviously  clearness  and  force  are  by  no 
means  identical ; and  while  clearness  should  gener- 
ally underlie  force,  clearness  of  itself  will  not  secure 
it.  We  must  look,  then,  in  the  elements  further  than 
denotation  for  the  trait  that  shall  be  favorable  to  the 
quality  now  before  us. 

To  recognize  this  trait  distinctly,  it  will  be  well,  I 
think,  to  revert  to  a few  familiar  examples.  In  the 
midst  of  the  American  Revolution  an  event  occurred 
familiar  to  you  all.  General  Arnold  betrayed  the 
American  cause.  A British  officer,  travelling  in  dis- 
guise with  messages  of  this  treason,  was  arrested  by 
some  local  patriots,  and  fell  into  the  hands  of  Wash- 
ington. This  unhappy  officer,  Major  Andr£,  was  tried 
by  court-martial  and  met  a tragic  fate.  Now,  how,  in 
a single  sentence,  should  we  describe  what  happened 
to  him?  We  all  know  what  it  was.  But  here  are 
four  separate  phrases,  each  of  which  accurately  tells 
what  happened,  yet  each  of  which  tells  it  in  a dis- 
tinctly different  way  : “ Major  Andr£  died  ” : that  is 


FORCE. 


241 


perfectly  true ; and  if  we  were  breaking  such  news 
to  a relative,  that  would  probably  be  the  wisest  form 
to  begin  with.  “ Major  Andre  was  killed  ” : that  is 
equally  true ; so  are  “ Major  Andre  was  executed,” 
and  “ Major  Andr^  was  hanged.”  Now,  there  is  little 
doubt,  I think,  that  each  one  of  these  phrases  would 
be  more  apt  to  hold  attention  than  the  preceding. 
“ He  was  killed  ” is  a more  forcible  assertion  than 
“ he  died ; ” “ he  was  executed  ” than  “ he  was  killed ; ” 
and  most  forcible  of  all  is,  “ he  was  hanged.”  If  we 
now  consider  these  four  phrases  together,  we  shall 
find  that  each  includes  the  last.  Whoever  is  killed 
must  die  ; whoever  is  executed  by  any  means  must  be 
killed ; whoever  is  hanged  must  probably  be  executed. 
In  other  words,  each  term,  more  definite  than  the 
last,  suggested  or  connoted  all  the  preceding  ones. 
Again,  to  take  not  single  words  or  phrases,  but  words 
in  composition,  compare  these  three  simple  state- 
ments : “ I found  him  very  agreeable  one  afternoon ; ” 
“ I found  him  very  agreeable  one  wet  afternoon  ; ” “I 
found  him  very  agreeable  one  wet  afternoon  in  a coun- 
try house.”  Now,  all  that  the  word  wet  says  is  that 
the  afternoon  was  watery  ; but  it  clearly  implies  that 
it  was  an  afternoon  when  you  would  not  care  to  be 
out  of  doors.  All  that  the  words  in  a country  house 
state  is  the  simple  fact  of  locality  ; but  they  imply 
that  you  were  in  a place  where  not  to  be  out  of  doors 
was  probably  a serious  trial  to  the  temper.  So  the 
last  statement  as  a whole,  “ I found  him  very  agree- 
able one  wet  afternoon  in  a country  house,”  suggests, 


242 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


though  it  does  not  state,  that  the  person  spoken  of 
was  one  whose  charms  could  overcome  a pretty  bad 
temper.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  a phrase  which  I 
fancy  anybody  would  admit  to  hold  the  attention 
more  strongly  than  either  of  its  predecessors ; and  its 
superiority  in  force  lies  not  so  much  in  the  bare  facts 
which  it  adds  to  the  first  statement  as  in  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  it  suggests.  Still  again,  take  this  sen- 
tence from  one  of  M.  de  Maupassant’s  stories : “ It 
was  the  15tli  of  August, — the  feast  of  the  Holy  Vir- 
gin, and  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon.”  He  states  only 
two  facts  about  the  15th  of  August,  and  these  in  the 
simplest  of  words.  Neither  by  itself  would  hold  one’s 
attention  enough  to  remain  long  in  memory.  But  put 
them  together ; think  what  the  Holy  Virgin  means  to 
Catholic  Europe,  and  what  the  Emperor  Napoleon 
means  to  those  who  are  not  subdued  by  the  magic 
genius  of  Bonaparte,  — and  you  have  a sentence  that 
when  mid-August  comes  about  will  hover  in  your 
head.  Yet  the  force  of  this— -so  greatly  superior  to 
the  force  of  either  statement  by  itself  — lies  not  in 
what  is  actually  said,  but  wholly  in  what  is  implied, 
suggested,  connoted,  in  this  sudden,  unexpected  an- 
tithesis. I shall  ask  you  to  believe  these  simple  exam- 
ples typical.  If  they  are,  they  will  long  ago  have 
shown  you  what  I believe  to  be  true : that  the  trait 
in  the  elements  of  style  which  is  favorable  to  force 
is  connotation. 

In  less  technical  language  this  means  that  a forci- 
ble writer  knows  not  only  what  he  wishes  to  say,  but 


FORCE. 


243 


also  what  he  wishes  to  imply ; he  understands,  it  is  to 
be  hoped,  what  he  wishes  a reader  to  know,  but  he 
understands  more  profoundly  still,  and  indeed,  for  his 
immediate  purpose  of  force  he  should  understand 
chiefly,  into  what  mood  he  wishes  the  reader  to  be 
thrown.  A curious  example  of  what  I mean  took 
place  at  Cambridge  a few  years  ago.  The  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  College,  which  consists  of 
the  fifteen  or  twenty  best  scholars  in  each  college 
class,  and  a few  other  people  whom  these  choose  on 
the  ground  of  scholarship  or  intellectual  note,  is  prob- 
ably in  temper  as  conservative  a body  as  is  to  be 
found  in  New  England.  It  is  their  custom  every  year 
to  have  a public  oration,  to  which  they  march  in  sol- 
emn procession,  headed  by  the  oldest  living  members. 
Toward  the  end  of  Mr.  Wendell  Phillips’s  life,  he 
was  invited  to  deliver  one  of  these  orations,  a little 
to  the  disquiet  of  prudent  Phi  Beta  Kappa  men,  who 
were  aware  that  his  temper  was  not  precisely  of  a con- 
servative order.  A good  many  went  to  hear  him  with 
much  curiosity  as  to  what  he  might  say,  and  appre- 
hension that  they  might  have  to  disapprove  it  by 
silence  at  moments  which  to  less  balanced  minds 
might  seem  to  call  for  applause.  In  the  earlier  parts  of 
his  oration  they  found  themselves  agreeably  surprised  : 
he  said  nothing  to  which  they  were  unprepared  to 
assent,  and  what  he  said,  he  said  beautifully.  They 
listened  with  relief  and  satisfaction ; when  the  mo- 
ment for  applause  came,  they  cordially  applauded. 
So  the  oration  went  on  with  increasing  interest  on  the 


244 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


part  of  the  audience.  Finally,  when  some  fresh  mo- 
ment for  applause  came,  they  applauded  as  a matter 
of  course ; and  it  was  not  until  they  had  done  so  that 
they  stopped  to  think  that  what  the  cleverest  of  our 
oratorical  tricksters  had  betrayed  them  into  applaud- 
ing was  no  less  revolutionary  an  incident  than  the 
then  recent  assassination  of  the  Emperor  Alexander 
of  Russia.  Now,  this  result  was  attained  simply  by  a 
skilful  use  of  words  : in  this  case  very  probably  by 
a deliberately  malicious  use  of  words  that  should 
make  a theatre  full  of  people  do  a thing  which  not 
one  of  them  really  wished  to  do.  It  was  not  what  he 
said  that  they  applauded  ; it  was  what  he  implied, — 
not  dynamite  and  dagger,  but  that  not  very  clearly  de- 
fined notion  of  liberty  and  freedom  and  the  rights  of 
man,  which  still  appeals  to  the  American  heart. 

I am  far  from  proposing  a malicious  trick  like  this 
for  a model.  But  it  is  certainly  a notable  example  of 
the  kind  of  thing  that  an  honest  man  who  would 
speak  or  write  forcibly  might  legitimately  want  to  do  ; 
namely,  of  the  power  of  so  holding  attention  that 
whoever  listens  or  reads  is  carried  along  in  spite  of 
himself.  Of  course  the  secret  of  such  consummate 
power  is  not  to  be  learned,  — at  least  by  many.  It 
can,  however,  be  analyzed ; and  the  analysis  will 
teach  us  more  than  one  thing  that  may  help  us  at 
least  to  enforce  our  own  style.  Our  present  business, 
then,  is  to  see,  if  we  can,  by  what  means  we  may 
master  some  of  the  secret  of  force ; or  in  other  words, 
how  we  should  proceed  to  give  our  words  and  our 


FORCE.  245 

sentences  and  our  larger  compositions  the  connotation 
that  we  wish  to  convey  to  readers. 

Perhaps  the  most  suggestive  way  of  answering  this 
question  is  to  examine  in  some  detail  a phase  of  style 
to  which  so  far  we  have  given  little  attention.  In 
the  old-fashioned  books  of  Rhetoric  this  took  up 
rather  more  space  than  anything  else.  It  was  classi- 
fied and  subclassified  and  named  in  detail  by  long 
words  mostly  derived  from  the  Greek,  to  an  extent 
that  may  well  have  affected  the  reason  of  anybody 
who  tried  to  understand  the  appalling  texts.  But  the 
object  of  all  this  lifeless  business  was  precisely  the 
object  before  us  this  evening ; namely,  to  discover 
how  to  write  forcibly.  The  phase  of  style  to  which  I 
refer  is  that  generally  described  as  figures  of  speech. 

In  the  old  books  such  things  as  Interrogation, 
Exclamation,  Antithesis,  Climax,  and  other  mere  ar- 
rangements of  words  were  classed  as  figures  of  speech  ; 
but  the  more  recent  books  spare  us  this  confusion, 
and  confine  themselves  to  the  kind  of  figures  which 
I shall  discuss  here.  These  are  what  may  be  gener- 
ally classed  as  Tropes,  — a convenient  name  for 
words,  singly  or  in  composition,  diverted  from  their 
original  meaning  to  suggest  or  signify  something  an- 
alogous. In  Professor  Hill’s  book,  which,  as  I have 
said,  has  always  seemed  to  me  the  most  refreshingly 
sane,  figures  of  speech  are  treated  as  a specific  means 
of  securing  force ; and  even  he  names  more  than  I 
am  able  to  keep  distinctly  in  mind.  There  is  one 
called  Synecdoche, -for  example,  and  another  called 


246 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


Metonymy,  which  I always  confused  until  I discovered 
that  there  was  no  earthly  use  in  keeping  them  sepa- 
rate. Like  the  figures  that  everybody  knows  by  name, 
— Personification,  Metaphor,  Simile,  — these  have  the 
common  trait  that  is  sufficient  for  us,  and  I believe 
for  any  practical  purpose : they  are  Tropes,  — they  ex- 
press a meaning  by  a name  other  than  its  rigorously 
proper  one. 

Before  proceeding  directly  to  the  study  of  these,  it 
may  be  well  to  specify  by  example  precisely  how  they 
name  ideas.  Suppose,  for  example,  that  you  wish  to 
describe  the  first  hours  of  the  day  in  a single  word. 
The  literal  name  for  it  is  morning  ; but  morning  is  a 
word  which  by  itself  suggests  — connotes  — nothing 
very  definite.  It  covers  every  hour  from  midnight  to 
noon,  and  to  most  of  us  means  simply  that  time 
of  day  when  we  may  have  breakfasted,  but  certainly 
have  not  lunched.  If  we  wish  to  name  our  idea  in  a 
way  that  shall  suggest  the  associations  which  in  our 
memories  cluster  about  those  rare  hours  when  we 
have  known  for  ourselves  the  phenomena  that  gave 
mythology  the  figure  of  Aurora,  we  have  in  English 
another  literal  word,  far  more  forcible,  far  more  defi- 
nite in  its  connotation.  Instead  of  the  literal  word 
morning , whose  connotation  is  very  weak,  we  may  use 
the  literal  word  daybreak,  whose  connotation  is  tolera- 
bly strong.  What  it  names  is  merely  the  glow  in  the 
eastern  sky  that  tells  of  the  coming  day ; but  it  sug- 
gests all  manner  of  things,  — the  cool,  clear  air,  the 
general  sense  of  awakening  that  makes  us,  when  we 


FORCE. 


247 


really  see  daybreak,  wonder  why  we  do  not  see  it 
oftener.  Now,  among  these  circumstances  associated 
with  daybreak,  none  has  impressed  traditional  human 
beings  more  than  the  general  awakening  of  birds  — 
and  notably  of  poultry.  There  is  in  English,  then, 
a very  common  metaphor  for  early  morning, — cock- 
crow. What  this  names  is  simply  one  of  the  circum- 
stances associated  with  daybreak  or  early  morning, 
— one  of  the  facts  more  or  less  definitely  connoted 
in  the  earlier  terms.  It  suggests,  instead  of  naming, 
the  literal  meaning.  Morning  is  literal,  and  not  for- 
cible. Daybreak , still  literal,  is  certainly  more  forci- 
ble, on  account  of  the  greater  definiteness  of  its 
connotation ; one  of  the  things  it  connotes  is  the 
awakening  of  birds.  Cock-crow  is  a figure  of  speech ; 
it  carries  the  process  of  forcible  selection  one  step 
farther ; it  names  the  connotation,  it  leaves  the 
denotation  to  be  inferred. 

If  tropes,  then,  figures  of  speech,  are  essentially 
mere  exaggerations  of  the  normal  process  of  forci- 
ble selection,  we  may  conveniently  study  in  them 
the  nature  of  the  process. 

The  first  trait  in  them  to  which  I would  call  your 
attention  is  that,  far  from  being  artificial  creatures  of 
a finished  civilization,  they  lie  at  the  root  of  all  lan- 
guage in  its  primitive  forms.  You  all  remember  that 
passage  in  Carlyle  where  he  speaks  of  the  very  word 
— attention  — that  I have  already  mentioned  so  often 
in  this  discussion  of  force.  To  us  it  is  a dull  and  life- 
less term  enough ; but  to  a Roman,  when  he  stopped 


248 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


to  consider,  it  would  still  have  had  its  literal  mean- 
ing. Tendo  means  to  stretch ; ad  means  to  or  to- 
ward ; attention  really  means  a stretching  out  toward. 
In , some  remote  past  it  was  a metaphor  used  by 
some  old  speaker  of  Latin  who  perceived  that  the 
process  of  mind  by  which  we  attend  to  anything  is 
very  like  the  physical  process  by  which  we  stretch 
out  our  hand  to  grasp  a tangible  object.  Again,  when 
something  has  puzzled  us,  and  at  length  we  begin,  by 
a process  of  attention,  to  grasp  its  meaning,  there  is  a 
big  Latin  word  by  which  we  may  express  what  occurs. 
We  may  say,  with  perfect  propriety,  that  we  appre- 
hend it.  With  much  less  formal  propriety,  small  boys 
have  a way  of  saying,  under  these  circumstances,  that 
they  catch  on.  A very  slight  knowledge  of  Latin  will 
serve  to  remind  anybody  that  these  two  phrases  mean 
precisely  the  same  thing.  Apprehend  is  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  the  Latin  for  catch  on.  The  original 
maker  of  the  word  went  through  precisely  the  mental 
process  that  has  produced  the  phrase  which  nowa- 
days we  condemn  as  slang.  He  saw  the  likeness  be- 
tween the  mental  process  of  what  we  now  call  apprehen- 
sion and  the  physical  process  of  grasping.  He  called 
the  one  by  the  name  that  really  denoted  the  other. 
By  and  by  the  literal  meaning,  in  other  languages 
than  Latin,  at  all  events,  fell  away ; the  figurative 
meaning  became  literal.  We  can  see  by  these  few 
examples  what  a friend  of  mine  meant  when,  a few 
years  ago,  he  declared  all  our  modern  language  to  be 
nothing  but  a nosegay  of  faded  metaphors. 


FORCE. 


249 


Travellers  among  savage  tribes  almost  always  re- 
mark the  very  figurative  habit  of  speech  common  to 
primitive  peoples.  When  Sir  Walter  Ralegh  went  to 
Guiana,  for  example,  he  had  a long  talk  with  an  old 
chief  about  the  history  of  the  country.  It  wras  now  in 
possession  of  a people  foreign  to  the  chief  in  question  ; 
and  this  is  how  the  old  Indian  described  the  invasion. 
“ When  his  father  was  very  old,”  writes  Ralegh,  “ and 
himself  a young  man,  there  came  down  into  the  large 
valley  of  Guiana  a nation  from  so  far  off  as  the  sun 
slept  (for  such  were  his  own  words).”  Again,  unedu- 
cated people  among  ourselves  have  a way  of  using 
figures  with  a freedom  and  an  aptitude  that  is  some- 
times surprising.  I remember  a Yankee  villager, 
some  years  ago,  who  saw  a small  boy  knocked  down  by 
the  recoil  of  a new  shot-gun.  “ ’T  ain’t  surprising,’’ 
he  said ; “ till  a gun  gets  used  to  you,  she ’s  apt  to  be 
skittish .”  Quite  how  much  of  this  spontaneous  per- 
sonification was  a matter  only  of  speech  I never  knew ; 
the  man’s  mind  was  so  simple  in  its  habit  that  perhaps 
he  really  thought  of  the  gun  as  a sentient  creature,  just 
as  primitive  jurists  thought  of  the  weapons  they  pun- 
ished for  committing  murder.  But  his  figure  was 
a good  one.  Still  again,  those  strange  little  ignorant 
savages  that  are  growing  up  aboufim>; — our  own  chil- 
dren— have  a way  of  using  figures  of  speech  that 
many  poets  might  envy.  I remember  not  long  ago 
hearing  a small  voice  outside  a dining-room  door, 
where  a company  was  in  the  midst  of  dinner.  Some- 
body went  out  to  see  what  the  matter  was ; and  there 


250 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


was  a little  man  of  six  in  his  night-gown.  “ I waked 
up,”  he  explained ; “ and  by  and  by  I felt  as  if  every- 
thing was  coming , and  I ’d  better  get  away.”  I have 
rarely  heard  a more  apt  description  of  the  effect  pro- 
duced by  the  mysteriously  inaudible  voices  of  the  night. 

You  can  see  at  once  why  children  and  untutored 
folks  and  savages  — people  in  the  condition  of  those 
who  first  made  language  at  all  — use  figures  of  speech 
so  freely  and  effectively.  The  things  they  really  know 
are  few ; but  what  they  know,  they  know  pretty 
well.  It  is  not  often  that  they  are  called  upon  to 
recognize  or  to  name  any  fact  that  is  beyond  the 
range  of  their  daily  experience.  When  they  are  so 
called  upon,  a double  state  of  things  arises  : in  the 
first  place,  the  novelty  of  the  idea  they  must  name 
excites  their  interest,  arrests  their  attention  far  more 
than  would  be  the  case  with  people  who  have  new 
shades  of  thought  a hundred  times  a day;  in  the 
second  place,  as  the  number  of  words  at  their  dis- 
posal is  relatively  small,  they  are  driven  to  describ- 
ing this  new  idea  in  terms  of  comparison  with 
something  already  familiar  to  them.  And  as  the 
things  already  familiar  to  them  are  generally  things 
that  remain  permanently  familiar  to  everybody,  their 
figures  are  figures  that  appeal  to  almost  any  human 
understanding  they  address. 

With  more  highly  civilized  people  the  case  is  differ- 
ent. Among  the  imaginative  productions  lately  sub- 
mitted to  me  by  pupils  is  a description  of  a night 
journey  by  rail.  The  traveller  tells  how  he  looked 


FORCE. 


251 


out  of  the  window,  and  saw  the  lights  from  the  train 
flying  across  a snowy  country,  like  a pack  of  wolves 
or  a swarm  of  ghosts.  Now,  I never  saw  a swarm  of 
ghosts,  or  even  a pack  of  wolves ; and  unless  I had 
frequently  seen  such  scampering  night-lights  as  he 
likened  to  these  unusual  phenomena,  I should  have 
had  so  slight  a notion  of  what  he  meant  that  I should 
not  have  been  much  impressed  by  his  description. 
Again,  to  cite  a poem  of  local  interest  to  any  Bos- 
tonian, when  the  Rev.  John  Cotton,  first  minister 
of  Boston,  died,  some  verses  were  written  to  his  mem- 
ory by  the  Rev.  Benjamin  Woodbridge,  whose  name 
stands  first  in  the  catalogue  of  graduates  of  Harvard 
College.  And  here  is  how  he  described  Mr.  Cotton: 

“A  living,  breathing  Bible;  tables  where 
Both  covenants , at  large,  engraven  were  ; 

Gospel  and  law,  in ’s  heart  had  each  its  column ; 

His  head  an  index  to  the  sacred  volume  ; 

His  very  name  a titlepage  ; and  next, 

His  life  a commentary  on  the  text. 

0,  what  a monument  of  glorious  worth, 

When  in  a new  edition  he  comes  forth, 

Without  erratas,  may  we  think  he  ’ll  be 
In  leaves  and  covers  of  eternity  ! ” 

That  is  no  bad  specimen  of  the  laborious  rhetoric 
cultivated  by  the  scholars  who  founded  the  college 
so  dear  to  many  of  us  ; but  nothing,  continued  for 
any  length  of  time,  could  be  much  less  effective, 
much  less  definitive  of  any  connotation  that  would  be 
aroused  in  an  ordinary  mind  by  contemplating  the  per- 


252 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


son  and  the  virtues  of  the  Rev.  John  Cotton.  Again, 
in  “ The  Nation  ” I once  found  a most  surprising 
review  of  Mr.  Henry  Adams’s  last  volumes  of  Ameri- 
can history.  In  this  review  there  is  as  much  labori- 
ously ineffective  metaphor  as  you  often  find  crowded 
into  an  equal  space.  Take  this  sentence,  for  exam- 
ple, about  President  Madison : “ In  accepting  the 
words  as  an  immediate  and  prospective  revocation 
of  the  decrees,  and  in  promptly  acting  upon  that 
understanding,  he  pierced  himself  through  with  many 
sorrows , and  was  betrayed  into  a diplomatic  position 
which  he  felt  to  be  most  uncomfortable,  and  which 
was  made  doubly  uncomfortable  by  the  slings  and 
arrows  of  the  Federalists.”  After  a few  paragraphs 
of  this  sort  of  thing,  you  are  not  only  left  in  the 
dark  as  to  meaning,  but  — if  you  have  energy  enough 
left  — you  are  more  than  bored,  you  are  exasperated, 
at  what  seems  like  deliberate  perversity  of  diction. 

These  few  examples  are  typical  of  such  use  of  fig- 
ures among  educated  people  as  has  led  so  many  good 
teachers  to  advise  pupils  to  use  no  figures  at  all. 

But  in  real  literature  there  are  plenty  of  figures 
that  are  very  different  from  these,  — figures  that  you 
appreciate  at  once,  figures  that  you  remember,  figures 
better  yet  than  those  of  all  the  untutored  makers  of 
language.  Take  Dr.  Holmes’s  saying  about  Boston 
which  has  passed  into  a proverb : — 

“Boston  State  House  is  the  hub  of  the  solar  system. 
You  could  n’t  pry  that  out  of  a Boston  man  if  you  had 
the  tire  of  all  creation  straightened  out  for  a crowbar.” 


FORCE.  253 

Take  what  Sir  William  Temple,  the  most  deliberate 
and  formal  of  gentlemen,  wrote  about  life  : — 

“When  all  is  done,  human  life  is,  at  the  greatest  and 
the  best,  but  like  a froward  child,  that  must  be  played 
with  and  humoured  a little  to  keep  it  quiet  till  it  falls 
asleep,  and  then  the  care  is  over.” 

Take  that  famous  lament  of  Cardinal  Wolsey,  in 
“ Henry  VIII.,”  which  generations  of  school  declama- 
tion have  not  spoiled : — 

“ This  is  the  state  of  man  : to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope ; to-morrow  blossoms, 

And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him  ; 

The  third  day  comes  a frost,  a killing  frost ; 

And  — when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a ripening  — nips  his  root, 

And  then  he  falls,  as  I do.” 

Better  still,  take  the  writer  whose  figures  have  always 
seemed  to  me  supreme  : I mean  Dante.  They  are  so 
wonderful  that  you  cannot  translate  away  their  power. 
In  this  lame  English  prose  of  mine,  I believe  much  of 
their  force  still  remains.  I take,  almost  at  random, 
two  passages  from  the  “Inferno”  that  I have  never 
forgotten  since  the  first  day  I read  them.  The  first 
tells  how  Dante  and  Virgil,  having  emerged  from  a 
wood,  find  themselves  on  a great  dike  that  skirts  the 
edge  of  a sandy  plain.  “ Already,”  he  goes  on,  “ we 
were  so  far  from  the  wood  that  I could  not  have  seen 
where  it  was,  even  though  I had  turned  about,  when 
we  met  a troop  of  spirits,  that  came  close  to  the 


254 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


dike.  And  each  of  them  peered  at  us,  as  of  an  even- 
ing one  peers  at  another  beneath  the  new  moon , and 
they  knit  their  brows  at  us,  as  an  old  tailor  does  at  the 
eye  of  a needle .”  I have  yet  to  find  a passage  in  liter- 
ature that  in  so  few  words  gives  a more  marvellously 
suggestive  notion  of  what  that  dim  and  ghostly  twi- 
light is  like,  when  one  cannot  tell  quite  what  one  sees, 
when  every  mystery  is  doubly  mysterious,  and  the 
crescent  moon  hangs  low  in  the  west.  The  second 
passage  from  Dante  is  that  more  famous  one  which 
occurs  early  in  the  story  of  Francesca  : it  is  the  figure 
that  Mr.  James  Lowell,  with  pardonable  enthusiasm, 
somewhere  calls  perhaps  the  most  perfect  in  all  liter- 
ature. Dante  and  Virgil  are  standing  on  the  edge  of 
a cliff ; and  through  the  dark  air  before  them  the 
blasts  of  hell  are  sweeping  the  spirits  of  those  who 
are  damned  for  their  lusts.  And  Dante  would  speak 
with  two  whom  he  sees  clinging  together,  — “ the  two 
that  seem  so  light  in  the  wind.”  So  he  calls  to  them. 
And  “ even  as  doves,  called  by  longing,  with  open, 
unmoving  wings  fly  to  the  sweet  nest,  borne  through 
the  air  by  will,  so  these  issued  from  the  swarm.” 
I might  go  on  endlessly,  from  Dante,  from  Shak- 
spere,  and  from  thousands  of  the  lesser  masters, 
showing  figures  such  as  every  lover  of  letters  must 
be  glad  to  have.  If  teachers  could  teach  the  secret 
of  such  as  these,  their  task  were  another  thing  than 
the  dreary  one  they  find  it. 

The  examples  we  have  before  us  already,  however, 
are  enough  for  our  purpose.  If,  as  I believe,  they  are 


FORCE. 


255 


truly  typical,  they  will  warrant  us  in  drawing  certain 
conclusions  as  to  what  makes  figures  effective,  and 
what  fails  to.  And  if  the  essence  of  tropes  be,  as  I 
have  suggested,  the  same  thing,  a little  exaggerated, 
that  underlies  all  force,  — namely,  a deep  sense  of 
connotation, — these  conclusions  will  help  us  toward 
some  knowledge  of  how,  with  force  in  view,  we  may 
choose  and  compose  the  elements  of  style. 

The  effective  figures,  we  find,  are  used  by  two  per- 
fectly distinct  classes  of  men  : first,  untutored  savages, 
peasants,  children,  — people  whose  knowledge  of  life 
and  command  of  language  is  as  elementary  as  possible ; 
secondly,  people  who  may  be  broadly  classed  as  mas- 
ters of  the  art  of  literature,  — people  whose  knowledge 
of  life  and  command  of  language  becomes,  as  we  con- 
sider the  best  of  them,  as  comprehensive  and  exhaus- 
tive as  human  power  will  permit.  The  ineffective 
figures,  we  find,  are  used  by  the  far  more  numerous 
class  of  writers  and  speakers  which  comes  between 
these  two, — those  who  have  awakened  from  elementary 
unconsciousness  of  the  limits  of  their  perception  and 
expression,  and  who  have  not  yet  attained  the  serene 
certainty  of  mastery.  In  this  class  most  of  us  inevi- 
tably find  ourselves.  We  are  born  into  conditions 
that  preclude  the  possibility  of  pristine  unconscious- 
ness ; and  unless  we  are  lucky  enough  to  be  born  men 
of  genius,  we  can  attain  anything  resembling  mastery 
only  by  years  of  patient  work.  The  question  before 
us,  then,  is  how  we  should  proceed  in  our  effort  to 
attain  it. 


256 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


To  answer  this,  we  may  best  examine  a little  more 
critically  the  examples  already  before  us,  to  discover 
if  we  can  what  traits  the  effective  figures  possess,  and 
what  the  ineffective.  We  have  already  seen  some  of 
the  traits  of  the  elementary  figures,  — those  used  by 
savages  and  peasants  and  children.  Whoever  has 
lived  long  enough  to  be  conscious  of  Nature  is  familiar 
with  sunset,  and  the  long  stretch  of  sleepy  night  that 
follows : to  any  human  being  the  phrase  “ they  came 
from  as  far  off  as  the  sun  slept,”  must  instantly  con- 
vey, in  perfectly  familiar  terms,  a familiar  notion  of 
extreme  remoteness.  Whoever  has  seen  a restless 
horse  knows  what  a Yankee  means  by  skittish,  and 
instantly  feels  the  likeness  between  this  trait  in  ani- 
mals and  the  behavior  of  a gun  in  the  hands  of  an 
inexperienced  sportsman.  Whoever  has  the  most 
elementary  experience  of  human  emotion  knows  the 
disturbing  sense  of  the  mysteries  about  us  which 
sometimes  comes  to  us  as  we  lie  awake,  and  which 
can  be  likened  to  the  approach  of  nothing  more  defi- 
nite than  that  vaguest  of  things,  everything.  So  when 
the  old  king  of  Guiana  said  that  his  enemies  came 
from  “ as  far  off  as  the  sun  slept ; ” and  when  the 
Yankee  countryman  said  that  a new  gun  is  “ apt  to 
be  skittish ; ” and  when  the  frightened  child  said  he 
had  hurried  out  of  bed  because  he  “ felt  as  if  every- 
thing was  coming,”  — each  of  these  elementary  beings 
used  a figure  so  familiar  in  substance  that  anybody 
can  instantly  understand  it.  In  each  of  these  cases, 
too,  the  analogy  between  the  figure  and  the  thing  it 


FORCE. 


257 


really  signifies  is  so  close  that  the  moment  it  is  pointed 
out,  any  human  being  can  appreciate  it.  The  conno- 
tation named  is  a connotation  that  might  readily  have 
occurred  to  any  human  mind.  It  is,  in  short,  a thing 
that  is  wholly  within  the  grasp  of  that  imaginary  per- 
sonage whom  we  have  seen  we  should  always  presume 
ourselves  to  address,  — the  average  man. 

Turning  to  the  other  group  of  effective  figures, — 
the  figures  used  by  the  masters,  — we  find  the  state 
of  things  surprisingly  similar.  When  Dr.  Holmes 
likens  Boston  State  House  as  it  appears  in  the  eyes  of 
good  Bostonians,  to  a hub , he  likens  it  to  something 
that  everybody  he  addresses  knows ; and  the  analogy 
is  one  which  everybody  he  addresses  instantly  per- 
ceives. When  Sir  William  Temple  likens  life  to  a 
fretful  child,  he  likens  it  to  something  that  everybody 
knows;  and  the  analogy  is  one  that  everybody  can 
understand.  When  Shakspere  — or  whoever  wrote 
Wolsey’s  lament  — likens  the  rise  and  fall  of  human 
greatness  to  the  growth  and  the  fate  of  a tree  nipped 
by  frost,  he  does  the  same.  So  does  Dante,  when 
he  tells  us  how  the  spirits  peered  through  the  murky 
air  as  men  peer  at  one  another  beneath  the  new  moon  ; 
and  how  they  knit  their  brows,  as  an  old  tailor  knits 
his  brows  at  a needle’s  eye.  So,  too,  when  he  likens 
the  way  in  which  Francesca  and  her  lover  emerged 
from  the  swarm  of  spirits  to  what  every  one  of  us  has 
seen  again  and  again,  — the  motionless  flight  of  the 
dove  with  outstretched  wings,  gliding  through  the  air 
as  if  moved  by  no  grosser  power  than  unfettered  will. 

17 


258 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


In  each  of  these  cases  the  substance  of  the  figure  is 
so  familiar  that  any  human  being  knows  it;  and  the 
underlying  analogy  — the  connotation  that  the  figure 
names  — is  so  close  that  the  moment  it  is  named  any 
human  being  can  understand  it.  In  short,  like  the 
work  of  untutored  people,  the  work  of  the  masters  is 
work  that  is  addressed  to  the  comprehension  of  the 
average  man.  In  other  words,  it  is  broadly,  sympa- 
thetically human. 

I know  of  few  single  facts  which  so  clearly  exem- 
plify what  I had  in  mind  when  I said  so  decidedly 
that  all  writing  should  on  general  principles  be  ad- 
dressed to  the  average  man,  — not  to  this  class  or 
that.  Here  we  are  face  to  face  with  the  fact  that  in 
one  great  phase  of  writing  — in  the  use  of  Tropes  — 
those  figures  which  are  obviously  the  best,  and  are 
admitted  to  be  the  best,  are  precisely  those  that  people 
in  general  can  best  understand. 

Turning  now  to  the  ineffective  figures,  we  shall  see 
without  much  trouble  that  what  makes  them  ineffec- 
tive is  either  that  they  are  in  themselves  unfamiliar,  or 
that  the  analogy  between  them  and  what  they  are  meant 
to  stand  for  is  by  no  means  simple.  When  a student 
likens  the  lights  of  a passing  train  to  a pack  of  wolves, 
he  likens  them  to  something  that  very  few  people  have 
been  unfortunate  enough  to  observe.  A reader  may 
fancy  what  a pack  of  wolves  would  be  like,  but  he  does 
not  know.  When  the  student  likens  these  same  lights 
to  a swarm  of  ghosts,  he  likens  them  to  something  which 
no  human  being  ever  saw,  and  which,  as  we  have  per- 


FORCE. 


259 


haps  remarked,  Dante  himself  made  vividly  real  only 
by  comparing  it  to  things  within  everybody’s  experi- 
ence. The  student,  in  short,  has  named  connotations 
that  could  not  arise  in  ordinary  minds.  In  point  of 
fact,  the  simple  adjectives,  “ swift,  mysterious,”  would 
have  expressed  his  meaning  a great  deal  more  forcibly. 
Again,  when  the  Rev.  Benjamin  Woodbridge  compares 
the  Rev.  John  Cotton  to  a “ living,  breathing  Bible,” 
he  compares  him  to  a thing  that  we  all  know  some- 
thing about ; but  when  we  agree  that  the  Bible  is  a 
holy  book,  and  that  Mr.  Cotton  was  a holy  man,  the 
likeness  seems  exhausted.  When  we  are  told  that 
his  name  is  like  a titlepage,  his  head  like  an  index, 
his  life  like  a commentary,  and  his  appearance  in 
heaven  like  the  issue  of  a new  edition  without  “er- 
ratas,”  we  may  be  impressed  by  the  ingenuity  of  the 
conceit,  but  we  certainly  are  neither  enlightened  con- 
cerning Mr.  Cotton,  nor  much  stimulated  to  find  out 
anything  more  about  him.  The  analogy  is  not  close 
enough  to  make  the  figure  mean  much : if  it  holds  our 
attention  at  all,  it  holds  it  for  a reason  far  from  what 
was  in  the  writer’s  mind, — simply  because  it  is  so 
ingeniously  absurd.  The  connotation,  in  short,  is  not 
such  as  would  present  itself  to  any  ordinary  mind. 
Again,  when  the  writer  in  “ The  Nation  ” speaks  of 
Mr.  Madison  as  “ piercing  himself  with  many  sor- 
rows,” and  thereby  “ placing  himself  in  a diplomatic 
position,”  where  he  was  uncomfortably  exposed  to  the 
“ slings  and  arrows  ” of  political  opponents,  he  does 
two  or  three  unfortunate  things.  In  the  first  place, 


260 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


he  likens  Mr.  Madison’s  discomforts  to  “ slings  and 
arrows,”  weapons  wholly  unknown  to  modern  military 
experience ; but  we  can  let  that  pass  as  an  allusion  to 
Shakspere.  Hamlet,  you  remember,  talks  of  “ the 
slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune.”  In  the 
second  place,  he  speaks  of  Mr.  Madison  as  piercing 
himself  with  sorrows ; now,  how  on  earth  any  human 
being  could  ever  pierce  himself  with  a sorrow  I find 
myself  quite  unable  to  imagine.  In  the  third  place, 
he  suggests  that  by  means  of  this  piercing  Mr.  Madi- 
son was  betrayed  into  a position  peculiarly  exposed 
to  the  slings  and  arrows  we  have  accepted  on  Shak- 
spere’s  authority ; now,  if  you  can  imagine  how  any 
process  of  self-piercing  can  result  in  betrayal  into  an 
exposed  position,  you  can  do  more  than  most  men. 
In  short,  these  figures  are  not  only  bad  in  them- 
selves,-— unfamiliar  in  substance  and  remote  in  anal- 
ogy,— but  they  are  distinctly  inconsistent  with  each 
other.  In  professedly  serious  writing  you  will  not 
often  meet  with  a more  inextricably  mixed  metaphor ; 
nor  will  you  often  find  one  which  more  distinctly 
shows  the  real  trouble  with  mixed  metaphors  : in 
connection  with  a given  idea,  they  name  and  make 
equally  conspicuous  connotations  that  are  mutually 
incompatible.  If  in  considering  the  original  idea  you 
let  your  mind  follow  out  one  of  these  lines  of  con- 
notation, you  constantly  get  farther  away  from  the 
other.  Either  by  itself  would  perhaps  serve  its  pur- 
pose ; to  present  both  together  is  to  ask  you  to  do 
two  perfectly  different  things  at  the  same  time. 


FORCE. 


261 


In  these  ineffective  figures,  then,  we  find  the  sub- 
stance remote  from  human  experience,  or  the  analogy 
something  quite  foreign  to  any  connotation  which  the 
real  idea  would  suggest  in  any  ordinary  human  mind, 
or  both.  In  some  cases  — like  those  of  the  student 
and  of  Mr.  Benjamin  Woodbridge — the  figures  may 
be  laboriously  elaborate ; in  some,  like  that  of  the 
writer  in  “ The  Nation,”  they  may  be  stupidly  careless. 
But  both  alike  are  ineffective  because  they  are  not 
addressed  to  the  average  man.  They  are  not  broadly 
human ; they  are  not  a bit  sympathetic. 

In  that  word  sympathetic  lies,  I believe,  the  secret 
that  whoever  would  learn  to  use  figures  well  is  seeking ; 
and  I need  not  repeat  that  what  one  seeks  who  would 
learn  to  use  figures  well  is  precisely  what  any  one  must 
seek  who  would  learn  to  choose  and  compose  the  ele- 
ments of  style  with  force.  We  have  studied  figures 
so  minutely  only  because  they  are  exaggerated  types 
of  force,  — actual  connotations  instead  of  merely  con- 
notative  terms ; and  now  we  are  come  to  a point 
where  we  can  see  that  the  process  a writer  must  turn 
to  who  wishes  to  improve  this  phase  of  his  style  is  not 
so  much  a technical  process  as  a process  of  self-cul- 
ture. There  is  an  old  commonplace,  “ Style  is  the 
man.”  What  anybody  expresses  must  ultimately  be 
what  he  himself  knows  and  feels.  Here  we  can  see 
that  failure  in  expression  commonly  means  failure  to 
know  and  to  feel  as  much  as  we  ought  to,  — in  a single 
word,  imperfect  sympathy  both  with  what  we  would 
express,  and  with  those  whom  we  address. 


262 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


To  lay  down  any  elaborate  scheme  of  self-culture 
that  should  result  in  the  development  of  literary  sym- 
pathy were  obviously  beyond  the  scope  of  such  a book 
as  this.  It  is  possible,  however,  and  I think  worth 
while,  to  consider  in  a general  way  how  we  should  set 
about  this  task,  so  essential  to  the  purpose  we  have  in 
view.  The  weakness  in  ourselves  which  makes  us 
use  bad  figures,  or  in  less  exaggerated  forms  write 
without  force,  — the  weakness,  in  short,  which  pre- 
vents us  from  appreciating  the  connotation  of  our 
words  and  compositions,  and  from  making  due  use  of 
it,  — may  generally  be  traced  to  one  or  more  of  three 
causes.  Two  I have  already  touched  on : imperfect 
understanding  of  the  matter  in  hand,  and  imperfect 
sympathy  with  the  humanity  of  the  people  we  address. 
The  third  is  a more  technical  matter : consciousness 
of  unformed  habits  of  expression.  Each  of  these,  I 
think,  is  worth  separate  consideration 

First,  then,  for  the  matters  in  hand.  Almost 
everything  we  see  in  life,  or  know,  is  capable  of 
arousing  a good  many  different  emotions.  In  exag- 
gerated cases  we  have  a fairly  clear  idea  of  this  ; 
when  we  see  a face  distorted  with  grief,  we  are  aware 
that  on  the  one  hand  it  is  pathetic,  and  on  the  other 
grotesque.  When  we  see  a drunkard  in  the  street, 
we  know  that  he  is  at  once  rather  funny  to  look  at 
and  a deplorable  example  of  a very  insidious  vice. 
But  every-day  things  in  life,  and  every-day  works  of 
art,  — books,  pictures,  music,  — generally  impress  us 
very  indistinctly. 


FOKCE. 


263 


The  simplest  example  is  the  best.  You  take  a walk, 
we  will  suppose.  When  you  get  back,  you  can  tell  in 
a general  way  where  you  have  been.  You  have  walked 
out,  perhaps,  across  a bridge ; that  is  about  all  you 
can  tell  us.  Yet  when  you  stop  to  think,  you  can  see 
plainly  that  you  could  never  have  taken  precisely  that 
walk  before,  and  that  you  can  never  take  precisely 
that  walk  again.  At  any  other  moment  than  the  one 
at  which  you  took  it,  you  yourself  must  be  a little  older 
or  a little  younger  than  then.  At  any  other  moment 
you  must  meet  different  people  and  see  different  ob- 
jects. What  is  more,  in  this  world  of  ours  everything 
about  us  is  constantly,  subtilely  changing,  will  be 
changing  constantly  and  subtilely  so  long  as  life  is  life. 
From  that  very  bridge,  where  you  or  I may  walk 
every  day,  the  view  is  always  beautiful  to  one  who 
loves  a great  expanse  of  sky  and  air ; but  at  no  two 
instants  is  its  beauty  ever  quite  the  same.  As  the 
sun  moves,  the  light  is  always  shifting.  As  the  wind 
blows,  now  from  one  quarter,  now  from  another,  the  at- 
mosphere is  always  changing,  subtilely,  slowly,  surely. 
As  the  clouds  shift  across  the  sky,  there  are  changing 
shadows ; and  the  actual  life  is  changing  too.  There 
is  hardly  a moment  when  on  one  side  or  the  other  you 
cannot  see  half  a dozen  craft.  There  are  great  dredges 
near  by  now,  pouring  out  masses  of  black  smoke  and 
white  steam  that  sometimes  blow  quickly  away  and 
sometimes  rise  slowly  into  windless  air.  Often  there- 
are  busy  little  tugboats,  puffing  noisily  about ; often, 
too,  lazy  coasting-schooners  at  anchor.  And  on  the- 


264 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


bridge  itself  are  plenty  of  human  figures:  a stolid 
draw-tender  or  two,  with  an  impudent  little  spaniel 
frisking  about  their  heels ; young  people,  apparently 
engaged  in  innocent  flirtation ; laborers  trudging  along 
with  tin  dinner-pails ; nondescript  characters  who 
give  color  to  the  report  that  the  place  is  not  always 
agreeable  after  dark.  Some  such  things  as  these 
every  one  must  see  who  walks  there.  What  is  more, 
every  single  one  who  sees  them  must  see  them  with 
eyes  of  his  own,  — different  eyes  from  any  others  that 
can  ever  see  them.  No  two  of  us,  as  I have  reminded 
you  more  than  once  before,  can  possibly  live  quite  the 
same  life  ; and  so  the  suggestions  that  every  sight 
we  look  on  arouses  in  our  minds  must  differ,  — slightly 
and  subtilely,  but  surely,  — as  each  of  us  is  different 
from  every  other.  Whoever  takes  that  commonplace 
walk,  then,  must  have  an  experience  different  from 
any  he  has  had  before,  or  will  have  again,  — different, 
too,  more  subtilely  still,  from  any  other  man’s.  Yet  all 
he  can  commonly  tell  you,  all  he  commonly  tells 
himself,  is  that  he  has  walked  across  the  bridge,  — a 
thing  that  anybody  can  do  any  day. 

What  is  true  of  this  very  commonplace  experience 
is  truer  still  of  experiences  that  are  not  commonplace. 
Each  in  itself  has  an  individuality  peculiarly  its  own ; 
and  each  for  each  one  of  us  an  individuality  pecu- 
liarly our  own.  Every  book  that  we  read,  every  piece 
of  news  that  we  hear,  whatever  we  know,  or  see,  or 
feel,  is  a part  of  ourselves;  and  that  mysterious  thing, 
our  human  life  in  all  its  inexhaustible  subtilty,  is 


FORCE. 


265 


made  up,  for  each  of  us,  of  these  commonplace  ex- 
periences — and  of  the  few  which  do  not  seem  com- 
monplace — that  we  are  so  apt  to  neglect.  It  is  the 
perception  of  what  makes  one  moment  different  from 
another  that  marks  the  sympathetic  character  of  the 
artist ; and  nothing  can  do  more  to  make  life  interest- 
ing than  a deliberate  cultivation  of  such  perception. 
Nothing  is  a bore,  if  one  can  only  bring  one’s  self  to 
look  at  it  with  open  eyes. 

In  my  teaching  at  Harvard  College,  I have  found 
no  one  thing  more  worth  dwelling  on  than  this.  The 
boys  who  come  there  have  been  trained  chiefly  in 
books ; and  not  so  trained  that  they  realize  what  good 
books  really  are,  — honest  expressions  of  what,  in  one 
form  or  another,  real  human  life  has  once  meant 
to  living  human  beings.  Every-day  life  to  them  is  a 
very  meaningless  thing,  — a thing  it  were  a waste  of 
time  seriously  to  attend  to.  For  some  years  it  has 
been  my  custom  to  ask  these  boys,  in  one  of  my 
courses,  to  write  for  me  some  record  of  every  day 
in  the  college  year.  What  I bid  them  chiefly  try  for 
is  that  each  record  shall  tell  something  that  makes 
the  day  on  which  it  is  made  differ  from  the  day  be- 
fore. Dreadfully  dull  work  they  think  this  will  be, 
and  dreadfully  dull  most  of  my  friends  think  the  task 
must  be  of  whoever  reads  these  records.  Yet  as  the 
college  year  goes  on,  the  task  generally  grows  less 
and  less  dull  to  the  writers  ; and  to  the  readers  it  is 
generally  far  from  dull.  Each  new  bundle  of  these 
daily  notes  that  I take  up  proves  a fresh  whiff  of  real 


266 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


human  life,  as  day  by  day  it  has  presented  itself  to 
real  human  beings  ; and  as  the  months  go  on,  more 
and  more  of  these  boys  begin  to  find  out  for  them- 
selves how  far  from  monotonous  a thing  even  the 
routine  of  a college  life  may  be  if  you  will  only  use 
your  eyes  to  see,  and  your  ears  to  hear.  Many  of 
them,  too,  begin  by  and  by  to  feel  what  any  sympa- 
thetic writer  must  finally  feel : that  this  real  human 
life  of  theirs,  this  human  life  that  is  peculiarly  theirs, 
is  the  source  from  which  they  must  draw  whatever 
they  really  have  to  say.  It  is  not  often  that  they 
learn  more  than  this,  — how  to  use  this  daily  ex- 
perience, this  real  knowledge,  in  writing  of  a more 
formal  kind.  But  one  counsel  that  I have  given 
them  sometimes  proves  fruitful.  When  they  use  fig- 
ures, I advise  them,  let  them  be  sure,  whatever  they 
write  about,  that  these  figures  be  drawn  from  their 
actual  experience.  Thus  by  degrees  they  may  come 
to  learn  both  how  they  may  train  themselves  to  find 
in  life  more  than  those  blindly  unsympathetic  beings 
who  pass  through  this  world  hardly  aware  that  it  is  a 
living  one ; and  how  when  they  have  found  these 
things,  they  may  begin  to  use  them.  Then  I try  con- 
stantly to  remind  them  that  whenever,  for  any  reason, 
they  undertake  to  express  themselves  about  anything, 
they  must  try  to  understand  it  in  just  the  way  in 
which  their  daily  notes  have  shown  them  they  can 
learn  to  understand  the  commonplaces  of  daily  life. 
Each  thing,  each  thought,  has  some  sentiment,  some 
emotion,  some  subtile  significance,  bound  up  with  it ; 


FORCE.  267 

and  this,  as  well  as  the  thought  or  the  fact  itself,  one 
must  learn  better  and  better  to  know. 

But,  as  we  have  already  reminded  ourselves,  it  is 
not  enough  that  we  understand  what  we  wish  to  ex- 
press. In  the  second  place,  if  we  wish  our  expres- 
sion to  have  certainty,  we  must  understand  too  what 
sort  of  human  beings  we  express  it  to.  A single  ex- 
ample will  perhaps  suffice  to  show  the  danger  in  this 
respect  to  which  we  are  all  liable.  In  one  of  Mr. 
Henry  James’s  stories  a rather  cultivated  American, 
who  has  thoroughly  read  what  is  called  standard 
English  literature,  meets  an  old  English  lady,  who,  to 
his  delight,  proves  to  have  known  Byron.  He  pro- 
ceeds to  ask  if  perhaps  she  knew  Charles  Lamb  too. 
“ One  did  n’t  meet  him,”  she  answers.  And  there,  in 
a single  phrase,  you  have  three  views  of  Charles 
Lamb.  To  the  American  he  is  a great  man  of  letters ; 
to  the  Englishwoman  he  is  a city  clerk,  quite  out  of 
society ; to  Mr.  Henry  J ames  — and  to  the  public  Mr. 
James  addresses  — he  is  both.  To  us,  in  our  com- 
fortable modern  culture,  both  the  American,  who 
thought  Lamb  a very  great  man,  and  the  English- 
woman, who  thought  Lamb  a nobody,  are  rather 
comically  limited.  But  to  the  Englishwoman  the 
American  probably  presents  himself  as  crudely  igno- 
rant of  the  simplest  facts  in  worldly  life ; and  to  the 
American,  the  Englishwoman,  who  is  simply  what  her 
surroundings  would  have  made  any  normal  human 
being,  probably  presents  herself  as  a very  deliberate 
snob.  In  other  words,  neither  of  them  is  in  a position 


268 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


to  understand  the  full  character  of  the  subject  under 
discussion.  Now,  nothing,  I think,  is  more  apt  to 
make  style  inefficient  than  a misunderstanding  of 
the ; knowledge  and  the  temper  of  the  people  you 
address ; and  surely  I need  not  repeat  that  when 
you  do  not  know  exactly  whom  you  are  addressing, 
you  are  safest  in  assuming  him  to  be  the  most  broadly 
human  being  you  can  imagine. 

The  third  cause  of  weakness  in  style  is  conscious- 
ness of  unformed  habits  of  expression.  This  is  very 
much  like  that  consciousness  of  unformed  habits  of 
behavior  which  often  makes  children  and  quiet  people 
extremely  uncomfortable  and  awkward  in  company. 
In  the  one  case,  as  in  the  other,  there  is  only  one  way 
of  curing  the  trouble,  — incessant  practice.  In  this 
matter  the  art  of  composition  in  no  respect  differs 
from  any  other.  The  difference  between  a trained 
pianist  and  any  of  us  who  cannot  play  a note  is  sim- 
ply that  the  pianist  has  kept  his  wits  and  his  fingers 
on  his  instrument  so  long,  so  often,  so  persistently, 
that  now,  while  our  untrained  hands  naturally  strike 
dreadful  discords,  his  practised  ones  almost  of  them- 
selves discourse  most  excellent  music.  In  writing, 
perhaps  the  difference  between  constant  practice  and 
sporadic  is  not  so  palpable  ; but  whoever  has  once  been 
in  practice  and  is  now  out  of  it,  or  is  now  in  practice 
after  having  once  been  out,  will  know  that  not  a day 
can  be  suffered  to  pass  without  its  line,  if  you  would 
keep  your  hand  at  your  bidding.  It  is  this  mastery  of 
the  petty  mechanism  of  style,  this  habitual  correlation 


FORCE. 


269 


of  thought  and  hand  and  pen,  that  gives  most  of  its 
merit  to  every-day  journalism.  Fluency  may  be  fatal, 
of  course ; no  commonplace  is  more  familiar.  But 
more  fatal  still  to  most  human  interest  is  that  lack  of 
fluency  which  makes  a writer  separately  conscious  of 
every  letter  he  forms.  It  was  this,  almost  as  much  as 
the  necessity  of  daily  observation,  that  first  made  me 
ask  pupils  for  daily  work  ; and  daily  work  means  not 
only  daily  observation  of  life,  but  daily  mastery  of  the 
pen.  After  all,  commonplaces  tell  the  story;  and  there 
is  no  truer  commonplace  just  here  than  the  one  you 
will  find  in  so  many  literary  memoirs  : Nulla  dies  sine 
linea , — “Let  no  day  pass  without  its  written  record.” 
Sympathy,  then,  with  what  we  would  express,  with 
those  to  whom  we  would  express  it,  and  more  subtilely 
still,  with  the  scope  and  the  limits  of  the  engines  at 
our  disposal,  is  what  we  must  cultivate  when  we  wish 
to  strengthen  our  style.  Even  one  of  these  things 
will  go  far  to  help  us.  It  is  profound  understanding- 
of  what  is  to  be  expressed  that  gives  such  curious 
force  to  novels  like  the  Brontes’.  It  is  profound 
understanding  of  those  who  are  addressed  that  gives 
such  force  to  a speech  like  Mr.  Phillips’s  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  oration,  or  like  any  specious  argument  by  any 
tricky  lawyer  or  politician.  It  is  perfect  mastery  of 
the  merely  physical  mechanism  of  style  that  gives  its 
peculiar  and  undoubted  force  to  so  much  cheap  jour- 
nalism. It  is  a fusion  of  all  these  that  underlies  the 
excellence  of  work  that  we  may  honestly  call  excel- 
lent, — work  where  the  effect  the  writer  has  in  mind 


270 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


is  produced  by  a fine,  firm  sense  of  what  the  elements 
of  his  style  may  be  made  to  do,  in  denotation  and  in 
connotation  alike* 

For,  as  we  have  seen,  the  secret  of  clearness  lies  in 
denotation,  the  secret  of  force  in  connotation ; the 
secret  of  clearness  in  what  is  said,  the  secret  of  force 
in  what  is  left  unsaid.  And  I believe  that  one  ex- 
perience very  familiar  to  any  teacher,  will  go  far  to 
prove  this.  I have  somewhere  seen  a story  of  the 
younger  Dumas,  that  when  his  first  successful  play 
was  produced,  some  old  Parisian  man  of  letters 
complimented  him  on  the  firmness  of  his  style.  To 
which  Dumas  is  said  to  have  replied,  11  y a un  fier 
dessous  (“There  is  no  end  of  it  out  of  sight”).  He 
meant,  I take  it,  that  he  had  produced  the  notable 
firmness  of  his  dialogue  — a trait  remarkable  in  most 
of  his  dramatic  work  — by  the  very  simple  process  of 
courageously  striking  out  needless  words  and  phrases, 
— making  each  word  do  full  work.  By  this  very  pro- 
cess, you  see,  he  would  make  what  words  are  left 
stronger  and  stronger  in  their  connotation.  In  a simi- 
lar way,  every  teacher  must  have  discovered,  in  his 
own  work  as  well  as  in  that  of  pupils,  what  surpris- 
ing gains  in  force  may  be  made  by  what  at  first  sight 
seems  to  a writer  a deliberate  process  of  weakening. 
The  truth  is  that  in  written  style  as  well  as  in  decla- 
mation there  is  at  any  given  moment  a fairly  distinct 
limit  to  the  power  of  any  given  man.  You  can  shout 
just  so  loud  and  no  louder ; you  can  be  just  so  pas- 
sionate, just  so  funny,  just  so  pathetic,  and  not  a bit 


FORCE. 


271 


more.  Now,  if  you  often  do  your  utmost,  anybody 
will  recognize  it.  That  terrible  sanity  of  the  average 
man  is  always  watching  you.  But  if  you  keep  your 
ultimate  power  in  reserve,  nobody  will  be  able  to 
say  just  how  much  farther  you  might  easily  have 
gone,  had  you  chosen.  There  are  moments,  of  course, 
that  call  for  your  utmost  power ; but  these  are  rare. 
And  your  utmost  strength  should  be  reserved  for 

them.  The  analogy  of  rant  on  the  stage  or  in  the 
pulpit  is  a very  close  one.  You  all  know  how  fatal 
the  effect  of  that  is ; and  the  final  weakness  you  all 
feel  there  is  a question  of  connotation.  Slowly  but 
surely,  amid  all  this  racket,  comes  to  you  a growing 
conviction  that  this  man  cannot  do  a bit  more.  There 
is  no  mere  technical  device  for  strengthening  style, 

then,  more  apt  to  be  of  value  than  the  deliberate 
weakening  of  passages  you  have  written  in  your  very 
strongest  way.  Such  deliberate  weakening  of  all  but 
the  very  rare  passages  which  really  demand  your  ut- 
most power  results  at  once  in  a connotation  directly 
opposite  to  that  of  vocal  or  written  rant.  It  is  evi- 
dent, in  sucli  cases,  that  there  is  power  in  reserve. 
The  more  you  listen,  the  more  you  read,  the  more 
you  feel  it.  And  how  great  it  may  be  there  is  nothing 
to  show.  The  tact  with  which  style  may  be  kept 
strong  enough  to  connote  no  weakness,  and  weak 
enough  to  connote  indefinite  strength,  is  perhaps  the 
finest  trick  of  the  writer’s  trade.  Whoever  has  begun 
to  master  it  will  have  learned  for  himself  that  the 
secret  of  force  lies  in  connotation. 


vm. 


ELEGANCE. 

The  last  quality  of  style  is  far  more  subtile  than 
either  of  the  others.  Any  style  that  we  can  under- 
stand, we  have  found,  is  clear ; and  the  secret  of 
clearness  lies  in  the  denotation  of  our  words  and 
compositions.  Any  style  that  will  hold  the  atten- 
tion, we  have  found,  is  forcible;  and  not  so  obviously, 
but  I hope  almost  as  surely,  we  have  determined 
that  the  secret  of  force  lies  in  the  connotation  of  our 
words  and  compositions.  But  we  come  at  last  to 
a more  elusive  matter  than  force.  What  is  it  in 
style  that  may  be  trusted  to  please  us ; and  what 
trait  in  the  elements  of  style  may  be  expected  to 
secure  it? 

In  my  first  chapter,  I suggested  to  you  both  the 
name  by  which  I shall  describe  the  quality  in  question 
and  the  definition  I shall  give  it.  Elegance  is  the  dis- 
tinguishing quality  of  a style  that  pleases  the  taste. 
By  framing  and  repeating  this  definition,  however,  I do 
not  mean  that  it  satisfies  me.  On  the  contrary,  both 
name  and  definition  are  among  the  least  satisfactory 
things  I have  ventured  to  offer  you.  Yet,  paradoxical 
as  it  may  seem,  this  very  fact  has  inclined  me  not  to 


ELEGANCE. 


273 


attempt  to  change  them ; for  no  single  example  could 
much  better  illustrate  what  I believe  to  be  the  real 
nature  of  the  quality. 

What  we  have  in  view,  you  see,  is  the  aesthetic 
quality  of  style,  — that  subtile  something  in  a work  of 
literary  art  which  makes  us  feel  delight  in  the  work- 
manship. Beauty,  some  call  it ; charin,  others ; oth- 
ers still,  grace,  ease,  finish,  mastery.  Yet  none  of 
these  terms,  any  more  than  the  one  I have  chosen, 
speaks  for  itself.  Most  palpable,  of  course,  in  kinds 
of  writing  whose  first  object  is  to  give  pleasure,  — in 
poetry,  or  in  that  finer  kind  of  prose  that  we  recognize 
as  belonging  to  literature,  — the  quality  I mean  need 
not  be  wholly  absent  from  even  the  most  technical 
style  or  the  most  commonplace  matter.  We  all  feel 
it  in  the  great  poets ; we  all  feel  it  in  such  prose  as 
Addison’s  ; in  less  certain  form  we  all  feel  it  in  such 
modern  prose  as  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold’s,  or  Mr.  Walter 
Pater’s,  just  as  we  feel  its  absence  in  every-day  jour- 
nalism or  in  the  astonishing  vagaries  of  Carlyle  or  of 
Mr.  Addington  Symonds.  But  I think  we  do  not  all 
feel  it  in  other  places  where  nevertheless  it  exists ; in 
technical  treatises,  for  example,  in  every-day  letters,  in 
every  case  where  human  beings  attempt  the  task  of 
embodying  in  written  words  the  elusive,  immaterial 
reality  of  thought  and  emotion. 

Our  first  task,  then,  is  to  realize  what  we  mean ; to 
fix  in  our  minds  the  quality  to  which  we  are  now  try- 
ing to  give  a name.  By  so  doing,  we  shall  see  why 
any  name  yet  found  for  it  must  be  unsatisfactory ; and 

18 


274 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


by  so  seeing  we  shall  learn,  I think,  more  about  it 
than  we  can  learn  in  any  other  simple  way. 

Perhaps  the  easiest  way  of  approaching  our  task  is 
for  a moment  to  consider  the  name  for  it  now  before 
us.  A moment  ago  I said  that  any  one  can  feel  the 
elegance  of  Addison’s  style.  Nobody  ever  had  much 
less  fundamental  liking  for  the  somewhat  priggish 
Whig  who  gave  English  literature  the  “ Spectator”  than 
that  stoutest  of  Georgian  Tories,  Samuel  Johnson.  Yet 
Johnson’s  Life  of  Addison  closes  with  these  words : 
“ Whoever  wishes  to  attain  an  English  style,  familiar 
but  not  coarse,  and  elegant  but  not  ostentatious,  must 
give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of  Addison.” 
The  opinion  thus  expressed  has  become  a tradition. 
To  this  day,  Addisonian  is  a word  not  infrequently 
used  to  mean  that  a style  has  the  finest  grace.  To  a 
certain  extent  this  is  true : if  a writer  have  in  view 
such  purposes  as  Addison’s,  little  higher  praise  can 
be  given  him  than  that  he  approaches  the  standard  of 
excellence  that  Addison  fixed  for  the  wits  of  Queen 
Anne’s  London.  In  another  way,  this  Addisonian 
tradition  has  given  rise  to  what  I believe  to  be  grave 
error.  If  to  be  Addisonian  is  to  be  excellent,  people 
are  apt  to  fancy,  not  to  be  Addisonian  is  to  be  some- 
thing not  excellent  at  all.  The  logic,  when  you  stop 
to  think,  is  obviously  imperfect;  but  as  a rule,  you 
do  not  stop  to  think.  Now,  the  most  salient  trait  of 
Addison’s  style  is  its  politeness,  its  well-bred  restraint, 
its  complete  freedom  from  any  manner  of  excess.  An 
admirable  trait  everybody  must  admit  this,  for  a great 


ELEGANCE. 


275 


many  purposes ; but,  to  go  no  farther,  to  be  at  once 
Addisonian  and  passionate  is  simply  impossible.  And 
whoever  should  say  that  passionate  writing  cannot 
have  the  trait  before  us  now  — the  quality  that 
pleases  the  taste  — as  well  as  the  intellectual  qual- 
ity clearness,  and  the  emotional  quality  force,  would 
obviously  say  something  that  would  make  his  notion 
of  the  quality  very  different  from  the  notion  I am 
trying  to  lay  before  you. 

To  get  a more  comprehensive  idea  of  just  what  this 
is,  it  will  be  worth  while  to  turn  to  four  passages  from 
English  poetry,  in  which  four  poets,  each  notable  at  a 
different  period  of  our  literature,  have  touched  this 
matter.  Among  the  beautiful  passages  which  make 
Marlowe’s  “ Tamburlaine,”  to  whoever  knows  it  well, 
something  far  more  significant  than  the  surging  sea 
of  bombast  for  which  it  stands  in  tradition,  are  these 
lines  on  beauty, — 

“ If  all  the  pens  that  ever  poets  held 
Had  fed  the  feeling  of  their  masters’  thoughts, 

And  every  sweetness  that  inspired  their  hearts, 

Their  minds,  and  muses  on  admired  themes; 

If  all  the  heavenly  quintessence  they  still 
From  the  immortal  flowers  of  poesy, 

Wherein,  as  in  a mirror,  we  perceive 
The  highest  reaches  of  a human  wit,— 

If  these  had  made  one  poem’s  period. 

And  all  combined  in  beauty’s  worthiness, 

Yet  should  there  hover  in  their  restless  heads, 

One  thought,  one  grace,  one  wonder,  at  the  least. 
Which  into  words  no  virtue  can  digest.” 


276 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


And  this  unspoken  word  is  the  final  secret  of  beauty. 
Fifty  years  later,  in  that  England  of  Cavaliers  and 
Puritans  that  was  in  feeling  centuries  away  from  the 
passionate  Renaissance  of  Elizabeth,  John  Ford,  in  his 
tragedy  of  the  “ Broken  Heart,”  wrote  this  song : — 

“ Can  you  paint  a thought ; or  number 
Every  fancy  in  a slumber  1 
Can  you  count  soft  minutes  roving 
From  a dial’s  point  by  moving  ? 

“ No,  oh  no  ! yet  you  may 

Sooner.do  both  that  and  this. 

This  and  that,  and  never  miss, 

Than  by  any  praise  display 

Beauty’s  beauty  ; such  a glory 
As  beyond  all  fate,  all  story, 

All  arms,  all  arts, 

All  loves,  all  hearts, 

Greater  than  those  or  they, 

Do,  shall,  and  must  obey.” 

In  a poem  as  far  from  these  in  character  as  the  limits 
of  literature  allow — in  Pope’s  “Essay  on  Criticism”  — 
are  these  lines,  which  say  the  same  thing  : — 

“ Some  beauties  yet  no  precepts  can  declare, 

For  there ’s  a happiness  as  well  as  care. 

Music  resembles  Poetry  ; in  each 

Are  nameless  graces  which  no  methods  teach 

“ True  wit  is  Nature  to  advantage  dress’d, 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne’er  so  well  express’d  ; 
Something  whose  truth  convinc  d at  sight  we  find, 

That  gives  us  back  the  shadow  of  the  mind.” 


ELEGANCE. 


277 


And  only  a few  years  ago  the  most  notable  of  our 
living  American  poets,  Mr.  James  Lowell,  gave  us 
these  lines : — 

“ I have  a fancy  : how  shall  I bring  it 
Home  to  all  mortals  wherever  they  be  ? 

Say  it  or  sing  it  ? Shoe  it  or  wing  it, 

So  it  may  outrun  or  outfly  me, 

Merest  cocoon- web  whence  it  broke  free  ? 

“ Only  one  secret  can  save  from  disaster, 

Only  one  magic  is  that  of  the  master. 

Set  it  to  music  ; give  it  a tune,  — 

Tune  the  brook  sings  you,  tune  the  breeze  brings  you, 
Tune  the  wild  columbines  nod  to  in  J une  ! 

“ This  is  the  secret : so  simple,  you  see ! 

Easy  as  loving,  easy  as  kissing, 

Easy  as — well,  let  me  ponder  — as  missing, 

Known,  since  the  world  was,  by  scarce  two  or  three.” 

Each  of  these  poets  in  his  own  way  has  said  the  same 
thing , and  when  we  ask  ourselves  what  this  thing  is, 
we  find  it  something  that  in  our  own  prosy  way  we 
have  already  tried  to  keep  in  mind.  The  work  of  any 
artist  — and  as  surely  as  M.  Jourdain  spoke  prose, 
every  writer  must  be  essentially  an  artist  — is  a far 
more  subtile  and  wonderful  thing  than  we  are  apt  to 
realize.  It  is  nothing  less  than  an  act  of  creative 
imagination,  than  giving  to  the  eternally  immaterial 
reality  of  thought  a visible,  material  body  of  writ- 
ten words.  As  Wordsworth  put  it  in  the  passage  I 
cited  from  De  Quincey,  style  is  the  “ incarnation  of 
thought;”  and  this  thought  which  we  would  incar- 


278 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


nate  is  an  infinitely  subtile,  infinitely  varied  thing. 
And  the  means  of  incarnation  that  we  mortals  have 
is  a very  limited  thing,  — only  a few  thousand  arbi- 
trary sounds,  to  which  good  use,  and  nothing  else,  has 
given  approximate  meanings.  At  best  the  incarna- 
tion can  be  only  a feeble  shadow  of  the  reality,  — a 
symbol  to  which  nothing  but  deep  imaginative  sym- 
pathy can  give  anything  like  the  significance  which 
the  artist  longed  to  pack  within  it.  By  irrevocable 
fate  expression  must  be  eternally,  almost  tragically, 
inadequate. 

There  is  no  single  example  of  this  more  notable 
than  the  phase  of  fine  art  which  I am  disposed  to 
think  most  characteristic  of  this  last  half  of  the 
nineteenth  century : I mean  the  music-drama  of 
Wagner*.  Any  one  can  appreciate  how  great  a poet 
Wagner  was.  In  “ Siegfried,”  for  example,  when  the 
dragon  lies  sleeping  on  his  hoard,  Wotan  comes  to 
warn  him  of  the  approach  of  the  hero  who  is  to  slay 
him ; and  from  the  depths  of  his  cave  comes  the 
growling  answer, — 

“ Ich  lieg’  und  besitze. 

Lass  mich  schlafen.”  — 

“I  lie  here,  possessing.  Let  me  sleep.”  In  seven 
words  Wagner  has  phrased  the  spirit  that  made 
the  French  Revolution  what  it  was  ; that  among  our- 
selves to-day  seems  to  many  so  terribly  threatening 
to  the  prosperity  of  our  own  country.  But  Wagner  is 
not  only  a poet ; most  of  you,  I think,  who  have  let 


ELEGANCE. 


279 


yourselves  listen,  must  have  felt  the  indefinable 
power  of  the  endlessly  interwoven  melody  by  which 
he  seeks  to  express  in  music,  too,  the  thought  and 
emotion  for  which  poetry  alone  is  an  inadequate 
vehicle.  Perhaps  you  must  go  to  Baireuth  to  know 
the  rest.  But  certainly  at  Baireuth,  where  every 
engine  of  modern  art  was  at  his  disposal,  Wagner  has 
brought  all  the  other  fine  arts  to  his  aid  : architecture 
in  the  simple  lines  of  the  darkened  theatre  itself, 
where  the  music  of  the  instruments  fills  the  air  one 
knows  not  whence ; painting,  in  scenery,  in  costumes, 
in  groupings  of  heroic  figures,  where  for  once  the 
pageantry  of  the  stage  is  treated  as  seriously  as  any 
great  painting ; even  sculpture,  as  when,  through  the 
whole  celebration  of  the  mystic  sacrament,  Parsifal 
stands  motionless  as  any  figure  cut  from  marble.  No 
one  art  of  expression  was  enough  for  Wagner ; and  it 
was  at  last  his  fortune  to  control  them  all.  Yet  when 
all  was  done  by  this  man,  who  seems  to  me  the  great- 
est of  modern  artists  ; when  at  the  point  where  each 
art  by  itself  had  done  its  utmost,  a fresh  art  came  to 
do  more  still, — the  final  reality  (the  real  thought 
and  emotion  which  all  this  marvellous  thing  would 
express)  is  as  far  away  as  ever.  Even  that  won- 
derful “ Parsifal,”  with  all  its  fusion  of  the  arts,  is 
another  thing,  and  an  infinitely  lesser  thing,  than  the 
great  simple  truth  which  lies  behind  it : that  the  true 
secret  of  wisdom  is  infinite  sympathy  with  humanity, 
good  and  evil. 

In  this  vast,  inevitable  inadequacy  of  our  means  of 


280 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


expression  lies  the  secret  of  the  profound  discourage- 
ment that  must  often  attend  even  the  greatest  of 
serious  artists  when  he  is  all  in  earnest.  Shakspere 
himself  phrases  what  I mean : — 

“ Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  of  wealth  possest, 

Desiring  this  man’s  art , and  that  man’s  scope, 

With  what  I most  enjoy  contented  least.” 

Whoever  would  work  earnestly  must  learn,  I believe, 
to  know  this  mood  ; to  face,  with  courageous  resigna- 
tion, the  inevitable  truth  that  underlies  it , content 
with  the  thought,  in  which  lies  no  exhaustible  stimu- 
lus, that,  do  what  he  may,  his  ideal  must  always  be 
beyond  him,  and  so  that  there  can  never  be  any  mo- 
ment of  accomplishment  when  he  may  not  eagerly 
hope  and  strive  to  do  better  and  better  still. 

We  are  far  enough  now,  it  seems,  from  Addisonian 
elegance  ; yet  we  are  coming  near  to  the  place  where 
we  can  see  why,  perhaps  unwisely,  I have  chosen  the 
term  elegance  to  express  that  final  quality  in  literary 
work  which  makes  us  recognize  its  art  as  fine.  This 
quality,  we  clearly  see,  is  a very  wonderful  thing,  — a 
thing  whose  essence  has  eluded  the  greatest  masters 
as  well  as  the  dabblers ; a thing  which  no  words  we 
have  can  adequately  phrase.  And  yet  when  we  stop 
to  think  once  more,  and  ask  ourselves  by  what  means, 
in  works  of  literature,  we  become  aware  of  this  im- 
palpable quality,  we  find  ourselves  just  where  we  have 
so  often  found  ourselves  before.  In  the  greatest 
poem,  as  truly  as  in  the  most  impudent  advertise' 


ELEGANCE. 


281 


ment  that  we  laugh  at  in  horse-cars,  all  that  meets 
the  eye  are  the  written  words.  It  is  something  in 
them,  and  only  something  in  them,  that  makes  all  the 
difference. 

Is  this  thing  a thing  we  can  in  any  wise  define  ? 
That  is  the  question  now.  Have  words,  alone  or  in 
composition,  any  trait  that  is  favorable  to  this  ex- 
quisitely subtile  quality  to  which  I have  given  this 
trivial  name  of  elegance? 

We  have  seen  already  that  every  word  we  use  must 
in  greater  or  less  degree  possess  two  distinct  traits,  — 
denotation  and  connotation.  It  denotes  the  idea 
which  good  use  agrees  that  it  shall  stand  for ; it  con- 
notes the  very  various  and  subtile  thoughts  and  emo- 
tions which  cluster  about  that  idea  in  the  human 
mind,  whose  store  of  thought  is  so  vastly  greater  than 
its  store  of  words  with  which  to  symbolize  thought. 
And  the  traits  that  words  possess,  compositions  must 
possess  too ; sentences,  paragraphs,  chapters,  books, 
put  together  the  words  which  compose  them,  and  all 
the  traits  of  these  words.  In  all  the  elements  of 
style,  denotation  and  connotation  may  alike  be  recog- 
nized. The  secret  of  clearness,  we  saw,  lies  in  deno- 
tation ; the  secret  of  force  in  connotation.  But  we 
have  already  seen  that  when  all  is  done,  the  expres- 
sion of  thought  and  feeling  in  written  words  can 
never  be  complete.  Do  what  we  may,  with  denotation 
in  mind  and  connotation  too,  our  style  can  at  best  be 
only  something 

“ That  gives  us  back  the  shadow  of  the  mind.” 


282 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


No  expression  can  be  so  perfect  that  a better  cannot 
be  imagined.  In  this  truth,  I believe,  lies  the  final 
secret  of  the  quality  I call  elegance.  The  more  ex- 
quisitely style  is  adapted  to  the  thought  it  symbolizes, 
the  better  we  can  make  our  words  and  compositions 
denote  and  connote  in  other  human  minds  the  mean- 
ing they  denote  and  connote  in  ours,  the  greater 
charm  style  will  have,  merely  as  a work  of  art. 
In  a single  phrase,  the  secret  of  elegance  lies  in 
adaptation. 

I said  at  the  very  beginning  of  this  chapter,  that  I 
was  dissatisfied  with  the  name  — elegance  — which  I 
have  given  this  aesthetic  quality  of  style ; and  yet  that 
I was  induced  to  keep  it  for  the  very  reason  that  it 
dissatisfies  me.  Now,  I think,  you  can  see  why.  We 
begin  to  understand,  I hope,  what  the  quality  is ; and 
if  you  will  stop  to  think,  you  will  find,  I believe,  that 
our  language  contains  no  word  which  will  begin  at 
once  to  denote  and  to  connote  all  that  we  wish  to  ex- 
press when  we  name  the  quality.  In  such  straits,  I 
often  think,  we  may  best  choose  a word  whose  literal 
meaning,  when  we  scan  it  closely,  will  remind  us  of 
what  we  really  mean  ; and  the  literal  meaning  of 
elegance  comes  nearer  what  we  mean  now  than  that 
of  any  other  word  I have  found.  With  all  its  conno- 
tation of  fashion  and  fastidiousness  and  over-nicety, 
elegance  means,  when  we  stop  to  remember  our  Latin, 
the  quality  that  distinguishes  anything  that  is  care- 
fully selected.  The  words  it  comes  from  — ex  and 
lego  — mean  literally  to  pick  out,  to  choose  from 


ELEGANCE. 


283 


among  some  great  mass  of  things  the  one  thing  that 
shall  best  serve  our  purpose  ; and  this  is  precisely 
what  the  earnest  writer  would  do  who  seeks  constantly 
to  adapt  his  style  more  and  more  exquisitely  to  his 
thought  and  emotion.  In  the  very  difficulty  that 
meets  us  here,  in  the  choice  of  a name,  we  can  see,  in 
concrete  form,  the  nature  of  the  quality  we  are  con- 
sidering, and  the  very  remote  approximation  of  style 
to  thought  with  which  the  limits  of  human  language 
so  often  compel  us  to  rest  satisfied. 

To  turn  now  to  a few  examples  of  the  quality  as  it 
reveals  itself  in  literature,  we  may  best  consider  it  in 
its  finest  form.  In  poetry  everybody  perceives  it  most 
clearly.  Of  course,  the  dialect  of  poetry  differs  from 
that  of  prose.  To  write  prosy  poetry,  or  to  write 
prose  full  of  words  that  belong  to  the  vocabulary  of 
poetry,  is  instantly  to  forget  that  the  secret  of  elegance 
lies  in  the  adaptation  of  style  to  thought.  But  the 
adaptation  which  gives  its  charm  to  the  finest  poetry 
is,  after  all,  adaptation  of  means  to  end ; and  just  such 
adaptation  of  style  to  meaning  is  what  gives  its  charm 
to  that  fine  prose  whose  purpose  differs  from  that  of 
poetry,  and  whose  outward  form  must  differ  accord- 
ingly. Take  a single  word  to  begin  with.  For  gener- 
ations, English  prose  has  discarded  the  pronoun  thou 
and  all  its  derivatives.  No  lover  uses  it  to  his  sweet- 
heart ; nor  could  the  phrase  “ thine  eyes  ” stand  for  a 
moment  in  serious  modern  prose.  But  the  moment 
we  turn  to  song  we  find  the  phrase  still  acceptable : 
“ Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes,”  might  have  been 


284 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


written  yesterday.  Not  very  long  ago,  I saw  a little 
poem,  written  at  Harvard  College,  and  in  many  re- 
spects charming.  The  first  line  of  it,  though,  ran 
thus: — 

“ Thy  eyes  are  mirrors  of  strange  things.” 

Now,  just  as  in  Ben  Jonson’s  line  the  style  seems  per- 
fectly adapted  to  the  thought,  so  in  this  line  there  is 
something  lacking.  A moment’s  study  will  show  that 
it  is  only  the  letter  n.  44  Thine  eyes  ” has  a sound 
which  we  recognize  as  charming ; 44  thy  eyes  ” has  a 
clumsy  repetition  of  sound  which  subtilely  recalls  the 
44  ki-yi  ” of  a small  boy.  Remote  as  this  connotation 
is,  it  is  enough  to  make  the  second  line  a far  less  ex- 
quisitely adapted  one  than  the  first.  In  poetry  — 
and  in  prose  too  — the  mere  question  of  sound,  the 
mere  choice  of  a single  letter,  may  make  a passage  or 
mar  it.  Transfer  that  n , for  example  : suppose  for  a 
moment  that  Ben  Jonson  had  written,  44  Drink  to  me 
only  with  thy  eyes”  and  that  the  modern  poet  had 
written, 44  Thine  eyes  are  mirrors  of  strange  things  ; ” 
and  Ben  Jonson’s  line  is  no  longer  certainly  the 
better.  Again,  take  a single  phrase,  no  longer  from 
serious  literature,  but  from  the  work  of  a friend  with 
whom  I once  discussed  it.  He  was  writing,  in  toler- 
ably impassioned  prose,  a description  of  a landscape 
remarkable  for  a certain  softness  of  beauty.  44  No 
rock  peeped  forth,”  he  wrote,  44  save  from  a bed  of 
verdure  soft  as  a woman’s  breast.”  Putting  quite 
aside  the  question  of  felicity  of  figure,  he  found  him* 


ELEGANCE. 


285 


self  dissatisfied  with  that  sentence,  because  there  was 
in  it  a connotation  of  voluptuousness  foreign  to  his 
purpose.  After  a while  he  changed  one  word,  and 
then  found  he  had  said  what  he  meant  to  the  best  of 
his  power.  Instead  of  woman  he  wrote  mother  : “No 
rock  peeped  forth  save  from  a bed  of  verdure  soft  as 
a mother’s  breast.”  The  only  change  is  in  the  choice 
of  a more  specific  word ; but  the  whole  connotation 
is  altered,  and  the  style  is  as  finely  adapted  to  the 
thought  as  that  man  could  make  it. 

Again,  compare  two  passages  of  verse  to  which  I 
have  called  your  attention  before : the  opening  lines 
of  Wordsworth’s  “ Skylark,”  and  those  of  Shelley’s. 
You  will  find  them  side  by  side  in  the  “ Golden  Treas- 
ury.” Here  are  Wordsworth’s  lines  : — 

“ Ethereal  minstrel ! pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

Dost  thou  despise  the  earth,  where  cares  abound  ? 

Or  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  1 — 

Thy  nest,  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 

Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still.” 

And  here  are  Shelley’s  lines : — 

“ Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 

That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art.” 

In  the  long  words  and  the  slow  measure  of  Words- 
worth’s first  line  — 

“ Ethereal  minstrel ! pilgrim  of  the  sky!  ” — 


286 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


there  is  something  that  keeps  the  mind  where  the 
contemplative  poet  would  have  it,  — down  on  earth. 
In  the  short,  ecstatic  words  of  Shelley’s  first  line  — 

“ Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! ” — 

there  is  something  that  lifts  the  mind  straight  away 
from  all  things  earthly.  Change  a word  in  either  of 
these,  change  even  a syllable  or  a letter,  and  some- 
thing is  lost. 

Again,  take,  almost  at  random,  one  of  Shakspere’s 
descriptions : the  beginning  of  the  speech  that  tells 
how  Ophelia  died  : — 

“ There  is  a willow  grows  aslant  a brook 
That  shows  his  hoar  leaves  in  the  glassy  stream.” 

Try  for  yourselves,  in  seventeen  words  and  twenty 
syllables,  to  pack  even  half  so  much  of  a picture  as  is 
there  ; and  you  will  see  for  yourselves  how  marvellous 
those  lines  are  in  their  exquisitely  simple  adaptation 
to  the  purpose  of  the  poet.  Then  read  the  passage 
through  ; and  when  you  have  finished,  see  for  your- 
selves how  this  simple  picture  that  begins  it  sets  the 
whole  in  a background  of  just  such  gentle,  homely 
nature  as  should  best  make  us  feel  the  loveliness  of 
the  dying  girl,  and  the  mournful  ness  of  her  end.  Or 
turn  to  Dante,  and  see  how  in  the  fifth  canto  of  the 
“ Inferno,”  where  he  tells  the  story  of  Francesca,  that 
wonderful  simile  of  the  doves,  full  of  suggestions  of 
light  and  love  and  purity,  softens  and  makes  mourn- 
ful the  dreadful  story  of  sin  and  expiation  that  in 
lesser  hands  than  his  might  have  been  merely  horri- 


ELEGANCE.  287 

ble.  See  too,  if  you  will,  the  pathos  of  a single  word 
in  the  beginning  of  Francesca’s  speech  : — 

“ Siede  la  terra  dove  nata  fui 
Sulla  marina,  dove  ’1  Po  discende 
Per  aver  'pace  coi  seguaci  sui.” 

“ The  land  where  I was  born  lies  by  the  shore, 

There  where  the  Po  comes  down  into  the  sea, 

To  have  at  last  peace , with  his  following  streams.” 

No  word  but  peace  could  so  give  the  suggestion  of  all 
that  might  have  been,  had  these  sinners  kept  from 
the  sin  which  has  doomed  them  to  the  eternal  torment 
of  hell.  I should  not  stray  from  English,  I suppose ; 
English  affords  us  examples  enough  to  last  forever. 
But  Dante  happened  to  be  the  first  poet  who  spoke  to 
me  ; and  when  I think  of  all  that  is  best  in  litera- 
ture, I cannot  help  thinking  of  him. 

We  have  seen  enough  of  what  this  exquisite  adapta- 
tion of  means  to  end  is  like.  It  is  time  to  turn  to 
another  example,  where  a real  question  arises.  Is 
the  passage  that  I shall  now  recall  to  you  exquisitely 
adapted  to  its  purpose,  or  does  it  fail  to  produce  the 
effect  the  poet  had  in  mind  ? I refer  to  the  last  line 
but  one  of  Mr.  James  Lowell’s  “ Secret,”  which  I cited 
a little  while  ago  : — 

“ This  is  the  secret:  so  simple,  you  see  ! 

Easy  as  loving,  easy  as  kissing, 

Easy  as  — well,  let  me  ponder  — as  missing  ; 

Known,  since  the  world  was,  by  scarce  two  or  three.” 

Charming  lines  we  must  all  find  the  first  and  the 
second  and  the  last ; but  how  about  the  last  but  one  ? 


288 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


In  the  midst  of  the  simple  melody  about  it,  that  con- 
scious little  phrase,  “ well,  let  me  ponder,”  startles  us  ; 
it  is  a disagreeable  discord.  At  first  we  are  annoyed  ; 
why  on  earth  did  he  spoil  a pretty  poem  by  such  an 
ugly  blemish  ? But  look  at  the  line  again,  ask  your- 
self what  it  means ; and  you  will  find  that  its  very 
purpose  is  to  show  how  very  easily  we  may  fail  to  do 
what  we  have  in  mind  ; it  is  : — 

“ Easy  as  — well,  let  me  ponder  — as  missing.” 

Could  four  words  more  subtilely  suggest  just  the  kind 
of  failure  that  the  line  describes  ? And  if  this  is  what 
the  poet  had  in  mind,  could  four  words,  after  all,  be 
much  more  exquisitely  adapted  to  his  purpose  ? It 
is  like  that  line  of  Pope’s,  who  complains  how,  in  bad 
verse,  the  measure  drags  : — 

“ And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line.” 

But  the  art  is  more  subtile  than  Pope’s ; you  only  feel 
its  effect ; until  you  stop  to  analyze  it,  you  do  not  see 
how  the  effect  is  produced. 

Few  examples,  I think,  could  bring  us  more  directly 
to  a fact  that  critics  of  style  are  very  apt  to  forget ; 
and  yet  which  every  one  must  fully  realize  before  his 
criticism  of  style,  as  style,  can  be  certain.  Style,  I 
may  remind  you  again,  is  the  expression  of  thought 
and  feeling  in  written  words.  To  a critic  of  style,  a 
given  piece  of  style,  then,  presents  a double  problem, 
but  a double  problem  of  which  the  separate  parts  are 
not  clearly  distinguished.  First,  he  sees  the  written 


ELEGANCE. 


289 


words  which  stand  for  the  thought  and  feeling  that 
were  in  the  writer’s  mind  ; secondly,  he  sees  through 
those  written  words  to  the  thought  and  the  feeling 
which  they  incarnate.  Now,  what  he  knows,  until  he 
begins  to  analyze,  is  merely  a general  impression  : he 
understands  or  fails  to  understand ; he  is  interested 
or  bored ; he  is  pleased  or  repelled.  And  a careless 
critic  confuses  the  two  elements  which  may  well  be 
present  in  these  primary  impressions ; but,  as  I con- 
ceive style,  we  must  separate  them  rigorously.  An 
artist,  I believe,  has  the  right  to  express  whatever  he 
will ; what  he  chooses  to  express  may  be  a very  hate- 
ful thing  or  a very  trivial,  but  if  his  expression  be  ex- 
quisitely adapted  to  his  purpose,  we  cannot  deny  that 
technically  his  art  is  fine,  and  that  if  he  displeases  us  * 
ever  so  much  in  his  purpose,  he  has  by  the  fineness  of 
his  art  executed  a work  in  which,  as  technical  critics, 
we  may  honestly  delight.  In  brief,  I believe  that 
until  we  fully  understand  a writer’s  purpose,  until  we 
really  know  both  what  he  would  denote  and  what  he 
would  connote,  we  cannot  safely  object  to  any  word  or 
any  composition  on  the  ground  of  what  I have 
called  elegance. 

Take,  for  example,  two  phrases,  — “ Them  that 
wasn’t,”  and,  “ By  thunder!”  The  former  is  as 
ungrammatical  as  three  words  can  well  be ; the  lat- 
ter is,  to  say  the  least,  very  slangy.  But  see  how 
those  phrases  come  into  these  verses  by  Mr.  Henley : 
to  get  the  full  effect,  I must  quote  the  whole  little 
poem. 


19 


290 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION 


“ ‘ Talk  of  pluck  ! ’ pursued  the  sailor, 

Set  at  euchre  on  his  elbow, 

‘ I was  on  the  wharf  at  Charleston, 

Just  ashore  from  off  the  runner. 

“ 1 It  was  gray  and  dirty  weather, 

And  I heard  a drum  go  rolling, 

Rub-a-dubbing  in  the  distance, 

Awful,  dour-like,  and  defiant. 

“ * In  and  out  among  the  cotton, 

Mud,  and  chains,  and  stores,  and  anchors, 

Tramped  a squad  of  battered  scarecrows,  — 

Poor  old  Dixie’s  bottom  dollar. 

11  ‘ Some  had  shoes,  but  all  had  rifles  ; 

Them  that  was  n’t  bald,  was  beardless ; 

And  the  drum  was  rolling  Dixie , 

And  they  stepped  to  it  like  men,  sir  ! 

“ c Rags  and  tatters,  belts  and  bayonets, 

On  they  swung,  the  drum  a-rolling, 

Mum  and  sour.  It  looked  like  fighting, 

And  they  meant  it  too,  by  thunder  ! ’ ” 

I doubt  if  you  can  find  a more  skilful  use  of  words. 
The  old  blockade-runner,  sick  in  hospital,  gives  this 
little  glimpse  of  what  he  saw  in  the  Confederacy : it 
gives  some  of  us  a glimpse  of  the  Confederacy  that 
we  are  not  very  used  to.  Change  a single  one  of 
those  irregular  terms  of  his.  Instead  of,  “ Them  that 
was  n’t  bald  was  beardless,”  write,  “ Those  who  were 
not  bald  were  beardless ; ” instead  of,  “ And  they 
meant  it  too,  by  thunder ! ” write,  “ And  they  were  in 
deadly  earnest,”  — and  see  how  the  picture  begins  to 


ELEGANCE 


291 


fade.  The  very  vulgarity  of  the  phrases  is  perhaps 
what  most  of  all  so  finely  adapts  the  expression  to 
the  thought. 

Again,  take  this  passage  from  De  Quincey’s  “ Con- 
fessions ; ” it  tells  of  his  mood  when  he  ran  away 
from  school,  and  wondered  whither  he  should  go. 
Notice  how  the  colloquial  vulgarity  of  one  or  two 
phrases  expresses,  in  a way  that  nothing  else  could 
express,  the  overwrought  emotion  he  has  in  mind. 

“Amongst  these  attractions  that  drew  me  so  strongly 
to  the  Lakes,  there  had  also  by  that  time  arisen  in  this 
lovely  region  the  deep,  deep  magnet  (as  to  me  only  in  all 
this  world  it  then  was)  of  William  Wordsworth.  Inevi- 
tably this  close  connection  of  the  poetry  which  most  of 
all  had  moved  me  with  the  particular  region  and  scenery 
that  most  of  all  had  fastened  upon  my  affections,  and 
led  captive  my  imagination,  was  calculated,  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  to  impress  upon  my  fluctuating  de- 
liberations a summary  and  decisive  bias.  But  the  very 
depth  of  the  impressions  which  had  been  made  upon  me, 
either  as  regarded  the  poetry  or  the  scenery,  was  too 
solemn  and  (unaffectedly  I may  say  it)  too  spiritual  to 
clothe  itself  in  any  hasty  or  chance  movement  as  at  all 
adequately  expressing  its  strength,  or  reflecting  its  hal- 
lowed character.  If  you,  reader,  were  a devout  Ma- 
hometan, throwing  gazes  of  mystical  awe  daily  towards 
Mecca,  or  were  a Christian  devotee  looking  with  the  same 
rapt  adoration  to  St.  Peter’s  at  Rome  or  to  El  Kodah, 
the  Holy  City  of  Jerusalem  (so  called  even  amongst  the 
Arabs,  who  hate  both  Christian  and  Jew),  how  pain- 
fully would  it  jar  upon  your  sensibilities,  if  some  friend, 


292 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


sweeping  past  you  upon  a high-road,  with  a train  (accord- 
ing to  the  circumstances)  of  dromedaries  or  of  wheel 
carriages,  should  suddenly  pull  up,  and  say,  ‘ Come,  old 
fellow,  jump  up  alongside  of  me.  I’m  off  for  the  Red 
Sea,  and  here’s  a spare  dromedary,’  or  ‘off  for  Rome, 
and  here’s  a well-cushioned  barouche.’  Seasonable  and 
convenient  it  might  happen  that  the  invitation  were  ; but 
still  it  would  shock  you  that  a journey  which,  with  or 
without  your  consent,  could  not  but  assume  the  character 
eventually  of  a saintly  pilgrimage,  should  arise  and  take 
its  initial  movement  upon  a casual  summons,  or  upon  a 
vulgar  opening  of  momentary  convenience.” 

Still  again,  take  what  seemed  when  we  were  dis- 
cussing the  elements  of  style  almost  inevitably  bad,  — 
such  excessive  diffuseness  as  actually  for  the  moment 
befogs  meaning ; and  turn  to  “ Henry  the  Fourth  ” 
or  “ Romeo  and  J uliet ; ” and  see  if  anything  else 
could  so  finely  express  what  Shakspere  had  in  mind 
when  he  conceived  the  characters  of  Mistress  Quickly 
or  of  Juliet’s  nurse  as  the  garrulous  prolixity  he  puts 
into  their  mouths. 

We  must  sympathetically  understand  a writer’s 
purpose,  you  see,  before  we  can  sanely  criticise  his 
methods.  In  misunderstanding  of  this  truth  lies 
what  I cannot  but  think  the  confusion  of  much  every- 
day criticism.  In  literature,  as  in  every  other  art, 
men  have  often  wished  to  express  things  that  might 
much  better  have  been  left  unexpressed.  The  pur- 
pose of  not  a few  admirable  artists  is  so  detestable 
that  on  grounds  of  morality  and  decency  we  may 


ELEGANCE. 


293 


utterly  condemn  their  work ; but  this  fact  does  not, 
in  my  opinion,  at  all  affect  the  value  of  their  work 
as  a work  of  art.  I have  in  mind  such  things  as  the 
stories  of  M.  Guy  de  Maupassant.  The  French  are 
finer  artists  than  we ; but  according  to  our  standards, 
at  all  events,  they  are  apt  to  apply  their  art  to  very 
abominable  subjects.  More  than  half  the  time  M.  de 
Maupassant’s  stories  deal  with  matters  that  no  decent 
man  out  of  France  would  for  a moment  think  worthy 
of  his  pains.  The  impression  left  on  you  by  reading 
these  stories  is  unpleasantly  debasing,  — at  least,  if 
you  happen  to  have  been  born  a respectable  Yankee; 
but  you  will  have  to  read  far  and  wide  before  you  can 
find  stories  in  which  every  word  and  every  turn  of 
sentence  is  adapted  to  its  purpose  with  more  subtile 
skill.  And  some  of  the  stories  that  are  in  themselves 
most  hateful  can  give,  and  rightly,  to  the  technical 
critic  the  keenest  delight.  As  style,  his  style  often 
seems  perfect. 

In  English,  on  the  other  hand,  this  state  of  things 
is  more  frequently  reversed.  Far  more  commonly 
we  find  the  motive  of  an  English  novel  to  our  taste ; 
naturally  enough,  for  the  genius  of  any  literature  is 
at  bottom  the  broad  human  nature  which  marks  the 
people  who  use  the  language  in  which  that  literature 
is  phrased.  But  over  and  over  again,  in  stories  irre- 
proachable or  even  edifying  in  motive,  we  find  false 
touches  that  make  them  as  subtilely  disagreeable  as  if 
they  dealt  with  most  repellent  things.  I remember, 
a few  years  ago,  picking  up  a novel  in  which  a 


294 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


charming  young  woman  was  engaged  in  sewing, 
while  a middle-aged  gentleman  sat  by  smoking.  Both 
were  agreeable  characters.  But  in  the  course  of  the 
evening  the  young  woman  bit  off  her  thread,  and  got 
a piece  of  it  stuck  between  her  teeth ; and  the  smoker, 
who  had  been  gnawing  the  end  of  his  cigar,  put  the 
unpleasantly  fringed  stump  of  it  in  a neighboring 
saucer.  It  is  probable  that  we  have  all  seen  charm- 
ing women  similarly  inconvenienced  by  refractory 
threads,  and  very  agreeable  men  whose  methods  of 
thoughtless  smoking  were  similarly  remote  from 
winsome ; but  such  sights  have  not  enhanced  in 
our  minds  the  impression  of  charm  commonly  pro- 
duced by  the  individuals  in  question.  Indeed,  if  we 
wish  to  keep  the  charm  in  mind,  we  have  a polite, 
if  not  deliberate  habit  of  forgetting  the  unpleasant 
little  traits  which,  if  we  choose  to  look  for  them, 
would  mar  the  charm  of  anybody;  and  if  we  are 
writing  stories  in  which  we  wish  the  reader’s  sym- 
pathy to  go  with  our  characters,  we  should  be  careful 
not  to  make  the  characters  do  anything  disgusting. 
Not,  I may  repeat,  because  even  very  disgusting 
matters  may  not  be  deliberately  introduced  in  any 
work  of  art ; but  because  our  purpose  for  the  moment 
is  not  to  excite  disgust.  Heroines,  then,  should  not 
get  thread  stuck  between  their  teeth,  — simply  because 
such  a proceeding  is  essentially  unpleasant ; for  the 
same  reason,  we  should  wink  at  the  fact  that  agree- 
able elderly  gentlemen  sometimes  masticate  the  ends 
of  their  cigars.  A style  which  introduces  such  traits 


ELEGANCE. 


295 


in  such  characters  is  exactly  what  M.  de  Maupassant’s 
style  commonly  is  not,  — admirably  unadapted  to  the 
purpose  in  hand. 

Actions  that  are  out  of  character,  indeed,  are  con- 
veniently broad  types  of  what  I mean  by  inelegance. 
In  everybody’s  life  there  are  endless  details  which, 
for  artistic  purposes,  are  out  of  character.  No  man 
is  great  to  his  body-servant,  you  remember ; nor 
anybody  so  contemptible  as  not  to  have  many  en- 
gaging qualities.  A mediaeval  soldier,  like  Othello, 
would  in  all  probability  occasionally  amuse  himself 
by  singing  comically  ribald  songs ; and  Scotch  gentle- 
men of  the  period  of  Macbeth  would,  very  likely,  in 
moments  of  relaxation,  take  part  in  national  dances. 
But  for  Shakspere’s  purpose  these  wholly  natural 
traits  would  have  been  out  of  character ; they  would 
have  attracted  attention  to  phases  of  life  which  for 
the  moment  we  are  not  properly  called  on  to  observe. 
On  the  whole,  then,  we  may  be  content  that  Othello 
does  not  lead  a drinking  chorus,  and  that  Macbeth 
does  not  gladden  the  gallery  with  a Highland  fling ; 
not  because  the  real  Othello  or  Macbeth  would  not 
have  done  such  things  serenely,  but  because  if  they 
did  such  things  on  the  boards,  they  were  by  no  means 
such  satisfactory  protagonists  in  tragedy.  In  short, 
if  Shakspere  had  made  them  act  out  of  character,  lie 
would  have  missed  the  quality  we  have  agreed  to  call 
elegance. 

There  is  one  trick  of  style  to  which  I have  referred 
before,  which  is  commonly  resorted  to  from  a mistaken 


296 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


notion  of  literary  taste,  and  which  is  responsible  for 
much  of  the  minor  inelegance  that  disfigures  our 
literature.  I mean  euphemism,  — the  naming  of  a 
disagreeable  idea  by  a word  not  in  itself  disagreeable. 
There  are  times  in  life,  of  course,  when  we  have  to 
mention  disagreeable  ideas ; at  such  times  we  may 
well  ask  ourselves  whether  we  may  not  best  mask  them 
a little.  But  generally,  1 think,  the  better  plan  is  to 
ask  ourselves  whether  we  may  not  best  of  all  leave 
them  unmentioned.  There  are  few  safer  habits  than 
calling  things  by  their  real  names ; in  that  case  we  do 
not  mention  hateful  things  needlessly.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  we  habitually  palliate  hateful  ideas,  we  begin 
before  long  to  lose  our  sense  of  their  hatefulness. 
Asa  result,  one  hears  a great  deal  more  than  one  need 
of  such  phenomena  as  accompany  the  experience  of 
a landsman  in  a rough  sea,  or  as  make  starched 
linen  unbeautiful  in  July.  And  to  take  an  example, 
where  the  real  idea  is  not  disgusting,  but  solemn, 
think  for  yourselves  how  habitual  euphemism  de- 
grades the  great  fact  of  death.  We  all  know  what 
“ to  die  ” means  ; it  means  something  we  all  have  to 
face,  and  that  we  all  face  with  some  degree  of  dread. 
Tender-hearted  people  resort  to  metaphor : “ to  pass 
away,”  they  say,  or,  “to  fall  asleep.”  Untender  people 
take  up  the  euphemistic  metaphor  : “ to  pass  on,”  they 
say,  or,  “ to  kick  the  bucket.”  And  a little  while  ago 
I saw  in  a newspaper  that  some  unhappy  creature 
who  had  taken  his  life  had  “ executed  a determina- 
tion to  become  a gloomy  corpse.”  Grosser  indecency, 


ELEGANCE. 


297 


1 think,  not  even  the  vilest  of  our  vilest  news-mongers 
could  invent.  And  all  this  comes  from  deliberate 
neglect  of  the  real  secret  of  elegance,  — of  constant, 
earnest  effort  to  adapt  our  means  to  our  end,  our 
style  to  the  thought  and  emotion  it  must  express. 

We  have  seen  enough,  I think,  to  understand  now 
that  nothing  but  constant,  earnest  effort  can  result 
in  that  habitual  adaptation  of  means  to  end  which 
must  mark  the  style  of  a master.  We  have  seen  enough 
besides  to  understand  that  there  is  no  little  truth  in 
the  vulgar  conception  of  elegance  in  style,  which  holds 
as  a standard  such  a writer  as  Addison.  It  is  true 
that  we  have  in  English  very  few  writers  whose  style  is 
more  exquisitely  than  his  adapted  to  the  purpose  for 
which  it  is  used.  It  is  also  true  that  Addison  very 
rarely  has  in  view  any  purpose  not  in  itself  agreeable. 
There  is  in  the  man,  with  all  his  obvious  limits,  a 
certain  sustained  urbanity  of  temper  that  has  made 
him  for  nearly  two  centuries  the  acknowledged 
model  of  literary  breeding.  But  if  literature  could 
express  nothing  but  polite  breeding,  it  were  an  un- 
speakably less  potent  thing  than  many  of  us  rejoice 
to  find  it ; and  the  real  secret  of  Addison’s  literary 
excellence  is  not  his  urbanity  of  temper,  but  the  fact 
that,  given  his  temper,  his  style  expresses  it  almost  to 
perfection. 

There  is  in  Addison’s  style,  however,  one  subtile 
trait  which  it  shares  with  any  style,  no  matter  how 
different  in  aspect  and  effect,  which  possesses  the 
quality  we  have  agreed  to  name  elegance.  This  is 


298 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


the  ease  of  habitual  mastery.  You  all  remember  the 
old  saw  which  I have  quoted  to  you  already : Ars 
celare  artem  (“  The  finest  art  seems  artless  ”).  To  a 
great  degree,  I think,  any  style  which  we  may  ulti- 
mately regard  as  a model,  adapted  to  its  purpose  as 
exquisitely  as  human  power  can  adapt  it,  possesses 
this  trait  of  ease.  In  much  style  that  is  clear  as 
crystal  the  trait  is  absent.  In  reading  George  Eliot’s 
novels,  for  example,  one  is  constantly  sensible  of  the 
effort  that  very  notable  writer  is  making.  In  much 
style  so  forcible  that  you  care  little  whether  it  be 
clear  or  not,  the  trait  is  equally  wanting.  In  Carlyle, 
for  example,  or  in  Browning,  you  may  look  far  before 
you  find  it.  And  sometimes,  as  in  most  of  the  prose 
of  Landor,  you  may  find  it  fatally  divorced  from  force, 
if  not  from  clearness.  But  the  ideal  style  is  a style 
that  is  clear,  — that  cannot  be  misunderstood  ; that  is 
forcible,  — that  holds  the  attention  ; and  that  is  ele- 
gant, — that  is  so  exquisitely  adapted  to  its  purpose 
that  you  are  conscious  of  its  elegance  only  by  subtilely 
feeling  the  wonderful  ease  of  habitual  mastery. 

Such  habitual  mastery  of  style  is  what  we  must 
strive  for  if  we  would  give  our  work  this  final  qual- 
ity of  elegance.  The  question  before  us,  then,  is 
how  we  may  strive  for  it.  In  a very  little  while,  I 
think,  we  may  get  some  manner  of  answer.  Style,  we 
must  always  remember,  is  the  expression  of  thought 
and  feeling  in  written  words.  To  express  thought 
and  feeling  with  the  ease  of  mastery,  we  must  in  the 
first  place  train  our  hands.  The  master’s  hand  is  the 


ELEGANCE. 


299 


hand  that  is  always  at  command.  In  some  degree, 
then,  that  daily  work  which  we  saw  so  great  a factor 
in  the  securing  of  force  will  serve  our  purpose  here 
too.  Whoever  will  let  no  day  pass  without  its  record, 
nor  any  record  be  other  than  the  best  he  can  make, 
will  do  much  ; but  he  will  not  do  all.  He  must  train, 
too,  with  equal  constancy  his  power  of  perception. 

One  phase  of  perception,  concerning  which  I have 
as  yet  said  nothing,  becomes  of  real  importance  here. 
I mean  perception  of  what  is  fine  in  literary  art.  It 
is  not  hard  for  one  who  has  very  little  such  percep- 
tion to  write  clearly,  nor  very  hard  for  him  to  write 
with  a great  degree  of  force.  But  it  is  not  often,  I 
think,  that  one  can  learn  to  give  one’s  style  the  final 
quality  which  comes  from  the  most  exquisite  possible 
adaptation  of  style  to  thought,  unless  one  has  trained 
his  power  of  appreciating  and  enjoying  that  quality 
in  the  works  of  the  masters.  Trained  it,  I say  delib- 
erately. With  some  of  us  it  is  inborn  ; with  some  it 
is  so  dormant  that  nothing  but  strenuous  work  can 
arouse  it.  But  even  those  who  possess  it  most  will 
not  waste  the  hours  they  give  to  earnestly  developing 
it.  One  is  sometimes  inclined  to  think  that  native 
love  for  art  is  a fatal  gift,  preventing  him  who  has  it 
from  ever  being  sure  of  what  is  really  good ; and 
those  who  do  not  possess  this  native  love  for  art  may 
surely,  by  earnest  work,  arouse  in  themselves  percep- 
tions of  which  without  the  work  they  would  hardly 
deem  themselves  capable. 

There  have  been  endless  discussions  of  what  poe- 


300 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


try  is  ; and  no  definition  of  it  that  was  ever  framed 
has  proved  adequate.  Each  new  critic  makes  his  new 
one ; and  no  better  one  than  the  last.  But  this  at  least 
we  may  say  : that  poetry  is  the  finest  form  of  literary 
art.  And  the  secret  of  its  fineness  lies  in  an  adap- 
tation of  word  — and  even  of  the  most  subtile  sound 
— to  meaning  that  comes  as  near  perfection  as  human 
power  can  bring  it.  Like  all  fine  art,  poetry  can  give  to 
human  beings  a kind  of  pleasure  more  exquisite,  more 
lasting,  purer  than  can  come  from  anything  but  fine 
art.  And  this  pleasure  any  sane  man  can  by  and  bj> 
begin  to  feel.  I say  this  with  conviction  because  as  a 
teacher  I have  so  often  seen  boys,  to  whom  poetry 
seemed  merely  a clumsy  statement  of  ideas  in  lines 
that  broke  off  before  they  reached  the  edge  of  the 
page,  teach  themselves,  by  deliberately  resolving  to 
find  the  charm  that  other  people  had  found  there, 
slowly  to  know  that  keenest  of  delights  which  comes 
when  at  last  they  can  begin  to  feel  that  what  they 
read  is,  above  and  beyond  its  meaning  and  its  inter- 
est, a thing  of  lasting  beauty.  And  I am  sure  that  no 
other  earnest  work  will  bring  half  so  sure  and  lasting 
a benefit  to  whoever  would  finally  master  the  art  of 
letters  as  will  come  to  him  from  a mastery  of  what 
poetry  means. 

I do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  every  man  should 
fancy  himself  a poet,  or  that  any  but  poets  should 
seriously  try  to  express  their  thought  or  emotion  in 
the  terms  of  poetry.  Yet  it  is  a notable  fact  that 
there  are  few  masters  of  prose,  at  least  in  our  own 


ELEGANCE. 


301 


literature,  who  have  not  at  some  time  tried  their  hand 
at  verse.  What  they  learn  by  the  effort  is  oftenest, 
perhaps,  that  poetry  is  not  for  them ; that  what  they 
say  must  be  said  in  what  seems  to  so  many  the  less 
sublime  vehicle  of  prose.  But  in  the  very  process 
of  learning  this,  they  have  learned,  too,  if  not  the 
secret,  at  least  the  charm,  that  makes  the  finest  of 
literary  art  the  marvellous  thing  it  is.  Beyond  the 
perception  of  life  that  we  saw  the  forcible  writer  must 
seek,  beyond  the  perception  of  human  nature  which 
should  make  him  know  the  human  beings  he  ad- 
dresses, beyond  the  perception  of  what  words  suggest 
or  connote,  as  well  as  of  what  they  mean,  the  writer 
who  would  attain  the  certainty  of  mastery  must  train 
himself  in  that  finest  of  perception  that  delights  in 
the  great  works  of  the  masters. 

Something  of  this  every  one  who  thinks  of  these 
matters  we  have  been  discussing  perceives  for  him- 
self. It  is  some  gleam  of  this  perception,  perhaps,, 
which  makes  almost  every  one  who  longs  to  write 
well  try  his  hand  — by  no  means  well  as  a rule  — at 
poetry.  It  is  some  gleam  of  this  perception  that 
makes  so  many,  equally  earnest  and  more  sanely 
aware  of  their  limitations,  saturate  themselves  in  con- 
ventional culture  and  then  try  piteously  to  express 
themselves  in  a way  that  shall  speak  to  fellow  human 
beings.  The  masters  can  write  poems ; the  masters 
can  enjoy  the  masterpieces : this  they  see,  and  striv- 
ing to  write  and  to  enjoy,  they  fancy  they  are  rising 
toward  the  point  of  mastery.  The  truth,  though,  as 


302 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


we  have  seen  long  ago,  is  that  whoever  would  write 
with  thorough  mastery  must  write  in  a style  that  has 
not  only  the  aesthetic  quality  we  have  just  been  con- 
sidering, but  that  has  too  the  emotional  quality  and 
the  intellectual  as  well.  And  these  qualities,  I be- 
lieve, must  be  striven  for  in  the  order  in  which  we 
have  considered  them.  First  of  all,  be  clear : address 
the  average  human  being,  remembering  not  what  is 
commonplace  in  him,  but  what  is  human.  Then  be 
forcible : do  not  content  yourself  with  merely  ad- 
dressing him,  but  do  your  utmost  to  hold  his  atten- 
tion. Finally,  when  these  things  are  done,  let  your 
style  have  all  the  grace,  the  finish,  the  charm,  that 
your  finest  care  can  give  it,  — remembering  that  no 
style  is  finally  good  until  along  with  clearness  and 
force  it  possesses  too  the  quality  we  have  named  ele- 
gance. In  other  words,  when  you  choose  and  compose 
the  elements  of  your  style,  let  your  first  thought  con- 
cern their  denotation ; your  second,  their  connotation  ; 
and  only  when  these  are  secure,  let  yourself  begin  that 
ceaseless  effort  whose  end  shall  be  a finer  and  finer 
adaptation  of  style  to  meaning. 

Finer  and  finer,  I have  said  purposely.  Often  as 
I have  repeated  it,  I cannot  repeat  too  often  that 
we  are  dealing  now  with  something  that  can  never 
be  perfectly  accomplished.  There  have  been  great 
writers,  blind  teachers  tell  us  ; look  at  them,  reverence 
them,  imitate  them.  When  you  equal  them  or  approach 
them,  your  own  work  will  be  great.  This  mood  — the 
mood  of  so  many  of  our  teachers  and  guides  — seems 


ELEGANCE. 


303 


to  me  a phase  of  that  deep  tendency  in  human  nature 
to  glorify  the  past,  to  worship  at  the  shrines  of 
heroic  ancestors,  to  look  far  back  in  primeval  times 
_ for  traces  of  the  golden  age.  Great  things  have  been 
done,  and  good,  in  life  and  in  art ; and  these  great 
things  are  the  most  precious  treasures  that  have  come 
to  us  from  the  humanity  that  is  gone  before.  But 
what  makes  the  great  works  of  expression  that  have 
come  down  to  us  so  precious  is  not  that  they  are 
themselves  supreme,  but  that  they  are  the  best  im- 
ages which  human  beings,  akin  to  us  in  all  but  the 
genius  which  makes  them  sometimes  seem  more  akin 
to  divinity,  have  yet  been  able  to  make  of  the  supreme 
truths  of  thought  and  emotion  which  each  knows  for 
himself  in  that  great,  endless  world  of  immaterial 
reality.  We  every-day  men  cannot  see  far.  Our 
thoughts  and  passions  are  petty  things  at  best ; and 
when  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  the  thoughts 
and  the  passions  of  the  masters,  which  seem  by  the 
side  of  ours  so  vast  and  glorious,  we  are  apt  to  forget 
that  the  noblest  expression  of  the  noblest  art  is  as 
petty  a thing  beside  the  great,  infinite  expanse  of 
truth  that  the  masters  strive  to  express,  as  is  our 
work  beside  the  little  truth  which  is  all  that  reveals 
itself  to  our  eyes. 

Far  enough  all  this  may  seem  from  the  technical 
matters  with  which  we  have  concerned  ourselves ; and 
yet  without  something  of  this  in  mind  I could  never 
have  faced  the  dreary  work  of  professional  teaching 
that  has  almost  insensibly  become  the  work  of  my 


304 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


life.  Year  after  year  I must  plod  through  ream  upon 
ream  of  manuscript  that  college  students  write  in  an 
effort  to  learn  how  to  make  themselves  writers.  Be- 
wildering, depressing,  maddening,  debasing,  I should 
have  found  this  work  years  ago,  but  for  the  growing 
conviction,  which  strengthens  as  the  years  go  by,  that 
the  meanest  of  these  works,  if  we  will  only  let  our- 
selves see  it  truly,  is  a very  marvellous  thing.  Care- 
less, thoughtless,  reckless  as  these  boys  so  often  are, 
the  most  careless,  the  most  thoughtless,  the  most 
reckless  of  all,  has  put  before  me  an  act  of  that 
creative  imagination  for  which,  as  I have  said  to  you 
before,  one  can  find  no  lesser  word  than  divine.  All 
unknowing,  and  with  the  endless  limitations  of  weak- 
ness and  perversity,  he  has  looked  for  himself  into 
that  great  world  of  immaterial  reality  which,  just  as 
he  knows  it,  no  other  human  being  can  ever  know ; 
and  with  these  strange,  lifeless  conventions  we  call 
words  he  has  made  some  image  of  what  he  has  known 
in  that  world  which  is  all  his  own  ; and  that  image 
begins  by  and  by  to  arouse  within  me  some  concep- 
tion of  what  life  has  meant  to  him. 

Petty  enough  this  thing  that  life  has  meant  to 
these  thoughtless  boys  must  often  seem;  yet  it  is 
an  unspeakably  greater  thing  than  the  lifeless 
words  in  which  they  have  striven  to  set  it  forth. 
And  as  year  after  year  I have  striven  to  understand 
what  these  lame  and  blundering  words  and  sentences 
mean,  to  penetrate  the  symbol,  to  grasp  the  thought, 
to  tell  the  makers  of  these  feeble  elements  of  style 


ELEGANCE. 


305 


how  they  may  better  the  work  that  seems  so  worth- 
less, I have  found  myself  year  after  year  more  and 
more  aware  that  what  they  have  done  in  their  little 
way  is  what  the  masters  have  done  in  the  way  that 
we  like  to  call  great.  More  and  more  I have  come 
to  know  that  the  realities  which  lie  behind  the  sym- 
bols that  make  the  greatest  works  great  are  things 
as  far  beyond  the  mere  symbols  themselves  as  the 
thoughtless  thoughts  of  these  college  boys  are  beyond 
the  symbols  their  pens  so  carelessly  scrawl.  And 
year  by  year  there  has  come  to  me,  amid  this  work 
that  seems  so  dreary,  the  growing  knowledge  that 
beyond  the  ken  of  the  students,  and  beyond  the  ken 
of  the  greatest  of  our  masters  too,  lie  unending,  in- 
finite realms  of  truth.  And  these  no  human  power 
can  ever  exhaust ; here  to  the  end  of  time  human 
beings  may  constantly  seek  farther  and  farther,  with 
endless  hopes  of  more  to  come  ; and  here  these  end- 
less stretches  of  truth  not  yet  known,  and  truth  per- 
haps never  to  be  known  to  human  beings,  make  the 
work  of  the  greatest  of  the  masters  seem  almost  as 
small  a thing  as  the  work  of  the  pettiest  of  the 
pupils.  For  what  either  has  revealed  is  but  some 
unspeakably  little  fragment  of  infinite  eternities. 

Technical,  dull,  lifeless,  as  all  these  things  I have 
been  prosing  about  must  seem  to  whoever  has  not 
studied  them  deeply ; dull  and  lifeless,  I fear,  as 
I have  made  them  seem  to  many  of  you,  — they  are 
things  that  lead  us  by  and  by  into  a conviction  of 
the  truths  of  idealism  that  to  some  minds  could 


20 


306 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION. 


never  come  so  strongly  by  any  other  means.  Amd 
idealism,  I believe,  is  a truth  that  cannot  be  shaken. 
What  we  read  is  but  a symbol  of  the  living  thought 
behind  it ; what  we  see  and  know  in  life  are  but 
symbols  of  some  greater,  deeper,  infinitely  more  real 
truth  beyond  them  all,  that  only  in  these  material 
forms  can  be  revealed  to  such  beings  as  we,  who  are 
living  here  on  earth.  Whatever  leads  us  to  such 
thoughts  as  this  is  a thing  that  leads  us  to  thoughts 
that  make  us  wiser,  better  men. 

It  is  this  that  makes  me  more  and  more  feel  that 
the  work  so  many  of  us  are  trying  to  do  at  Harvard 
College,  the  work  of  which  I have  tried  to  give  you 
some  account,  the  work  of  any  earnest  teacher  of 
this  subject  — composition  — that  seems  to  most  men 
so  dull,  is  a work  that  may  rightly  claim  a place 
in  any  system  of  education,  no  matter  how  high  it 
hold  its  head.  If  teacher  or  pupil  keep  himself 
down  to  the  symbol  alone,  he  sinks  hopelessly  into 
the  depths  of  pedantry.  But  if  teacher  or  pupil  keep 
himself  alive  to  the  truth  that  what  he  is  striving  to 
accomplish  is  no  less  a thing  than  an  act  of  creative 
imagination  ; if  he  learn  to  know  that  in  his  own  little 
way  he  is  trying  to  do  just  such  a thing  as  the  great- 
est of  the  masters  have  done  before  him ; if  through 
the  symbol  his  eye  learn  to  seek  and  to  know  the 
infinite  reality  of  truth  that  lies  beyond,  — he  will  find 
that  even  though  technical  mastery  never  come,  he 
will  learn  more  and  more  the  infinite,  mysterious  sig- 
nificance of  that  human  life  that  each  of  us  is  living 


ELEGANCE. 


307 


for  himself.  The  old  systems  strove  to  bring  us  to 
such  wisdom  by  reverent  study  — and  sometimes  by 
cruelly  irreverent  mangling  — of  the  greatest  works 
of  the  masters.  There  are  minds,  and  not  a few,  that 
can  come  thither  only  by  such  means ; but  there  are 
other  minds,  and  not  a few,  I think,  who  can  come 
thither  better  by  such  humbler  means  as  ours : by  striv- 
ing each  for  himself  to  do  his  best.  By  and  by  he  must 
come  to  know  how  little  a thing  that  is  by  the  side  of 
what  he  longed  to  do ; and  by  and  by  he  will  find  that 
thus  he  has  come  to  learn  how  vast  a thing  beside  the 
little  that  the  masters  have  accomplished  is  the  thing 
for  which  they  have  striven.  So,  by  one  road  as  by 
the  other,  men  may  come  at  last  face  to  face  with 
what  most  of  all  wise  men  love  to  face,  — with  the 
infinite  realities  that  lie,  and  that  must  forever  lie, 
beyond  human  ken. 


TX. 


SUMMARY. 

It  has  been  my  purpose  to  lay  before  you,  as  simply 
and  as  broadly  as  I could,  the  theory  of  style  to  which 
ten  years  of  study  have  led  me.  To  most  people,  as 
I said  in  the  beginning,  this  matter  that  we  have  been 
discussing  seems  a question  of  endless  detail,  and  of 
detail  which  may  be  declared  in  every  case  right  or 
wrong.  To  me,  as  I have  tried  to  show  you,  it  seems 
rather  a matter  governed  by  a very  few  simple  gen- 
eral principles.  The  art  of  composition,  like  any  other 
art,  can  be  mastered  only  by  incessant,  earnest  prac- 
tice and  effort ; but  the  principles  that  should  gov- 
ern the  conduct  of  whoever  would  learn  to  practise 
it,  and  the  ends  he  should  keep  in  view,  seem  to 
me  the  principles  and  the  ends  — and  no  others  — 
that  I have  attempted  to  lay  before  you.  My  task  is 
almost  done.  There  remains  for  me  only  to  sum  up, 
as  briefly  as  I can,  the  substance  of  the  eight  chapters 
in  which  I have  striven  to  tell  what  I know  of  the 
elements  and  the  qualities  of  Style. 

Style,  the  expression  of  thought  and  feeling  in  writ- 
ten words,  must  affect  readers  in  three  distinct  ways, 
— intellectually,  emotionally,  and  aesthetically.  To 


SUMMARY. 


809 


the  qualities  in  style  which  produce  these  effects  we 
give  the  names  Clearness,  Force,  and  Elegance.  But 
any  piece  of  style  presents  to  the  eye  only  those  ar- 
bitrary marks  that  common  consent,  good  use,  has 
made  significant  of  those  arbitrary  sounds  — words 
— that  good  use  has  made  significant  of  certain  more 
or  less  definite  phases  of  thought  and  emotion.  The 
qualities  of  style,  then,  can  be  conveyed  from  writer 
to  reader  only  by  means  of  the  way  in  which  these 
black  marks  are  chosen  and  arranged,  — in  brief, 
only  by  our  choice  and  composition  of  words.  In  a 
given  piece  of  writing,  then,  we  may  discover  why  a 
given  quality  is  present  or  absent  by  analyzing  the 
elements  presented  to  the  eye.  In  this  analysis  it  is 
convenient  to  examine  the  elements  in  four  stages  : 
first,  Words  by  themselves ; then  those  compositions  of 
words  that  we  call  Sentences;  then  those  compositions 
of  sentences  that  we  call  Paragraphs  ; and  finally, 
those  larger  compositions  to  which  we  may  give  the 
name  of  Wholes.  Of  words  we  must  always  remember 
that  they  are  arbitrary  sounds  to  which  meaning  is 
given  only  by  good  use.  Our  choice  of  words,  then, 
must  be  absolutely  governed  by  good  use ; but  within 
its  limits  we  are  able  to  produce  widely  various 
effects  by  varying  our  kinds  of  words  and  our  num- 
ber of  words.  Of  sentences  we  must  always  remem- 
ber that  they  are  largely  governed  by  good  use,  — to 
which  in  this  case  we  give  the  name  “ grammar.” 
Within  its  limits,  however,  we  are  free  to  vary  the 
kinds  of  our  sentences,  and  to  apply  to  our  sentences 


310 


ENGLISH  COMPOSITION 


the  three  principles  of  composition.  The  first,  the 
principle  of  Unity,  concerns  the  substance  of  a com- 
position : each  composition  should  group  itself  about 
one  central  idea.  The  second,  the  principle  of  Mass, 
concerns  the  external  form  of  a composition:  the 
chief  parts  of  each  composition  should  be  so  placed 
as  readily  to  catch  the  gye.  The  third,  the  principle 
of  Coherence,  concerns  the  internal  arrangement  of  a 
composition  : the  relation  of  each  part  of  a composi- 
tion to  its  neighbors  should  be  unmistakable.  Con- 
stantly hampered  in  sentences  by  the  paramount 
authority  of  good  use,  the  operation  of  these  principles 
in  paragraphs  and  in  whole  compositions  may  pro- 
ceed almost  untrammelled.  And  the  visible  body  of 
modern  English  style  may  conveniently  be  regarded 
as  the  result  of  a constant  and  by  no  means  finished 
conflict  between  good  use  and  these  three  simple 
principles  of  composition,  which  seem  slowly  to  be 
gaining  authority.  And  now,  having  seen  that  the 
secret  of  the  qualities  of  style  must  be  sought  in  the 
elements,  we  may  finally  ask  ourselves  if  in  the  ele- 
ments we  may  detect  any  traits  that  are  favorable  to 
one  quality  or  another.  To  me  it  seems  that  we  may 
detect  a trait  favorable  to  each.  Never  forgetting 
the  vast  extent  of  our  thoughts  and  emotions,  and  the 
very  narrow  limits  of  even  the  widest  vocabulary,  we 
remember  that  each  of  our  words  must  not  only  name 
an  idea,  but  along  with  the  idea  it  names  must  sub- 
tilely  but  surely  suggest  others.  I have  borrowed 
from  logic  two  names  — there  used  technically  — to 


SUMMARY. 


311 


express  these  two  powers  of  words.  To  their  power  of 
naming  ideas,  I have  ventured  to  give  the  name  “ de- 
notation to  their  power  of  suggesting  ideas,  I have 
ventured  to  give  the  name  “ connotation.’’  And  I have 
tried  to  show  you  that  such  choice  and  composition  of 
the  elements  of  style  as  shall  best  denote  our  meaning 
is  what  Clearness  demands  ; that  such  choice  and 
composition  of  the  elements  as  shall  best  connote  our 
emotion  is  what  Force  demands ; and  that  such  choice 
and  composition  of  the  elements  as  shall  most  ex- 
quisitely adapt  itself  to  the  eternally  elusive  imma- 
terial reality  of  thought  and  emotion  is  what  Elegance 
demands.  In  a single  sentence,  to  sum  up  all  1 have 
tried  to  tell  you,  all  that  ten  years  of  toilsome  work 
have  taught  me  : the  secret  of  Clearness  lies  in  deno- 
tation ; the  secret  of  Force  lies  in  connotation ; the 
secret  of  Elegance  lies  in  adaptation. 


INDEX 


Adaptation,  the  secret  of  elegance, 
282;  examples  of,  283-288. 
Ambiguity,  205. 

Anticlimax,  102,  133. 

Argument,  164. 

Artifice,  89,  101,  120, 141. 
Association  of  ideas,  71. 
Assumptions,  201. 

Average  man,  198,  229. 


Balance,  95. 
Barbarisms,  44-47,  50. 
Books  of  reference,  20. 
Brevity,  63. 


Chapters,  27,  150 

Clearness,  8,  193-233;  defined,  194; 
offences  against,  202  (see  Vague- 
ness, Ambiguity,  and  Obscurity) ; a 
relative  quality,  194-196. 

Coherence,  principle  of,  29, 34,  35,  96 ; 
conflict  with  mass,  179,  180;  of 
sentence,  103-111  (see  Order  of 
Words,  Constructions,  and  Connec- 
tives) ; test  of  coherence  of  sentence, 
110;  historical  growth  of,  110;  of 
paragraphs,  134-146  (see  Order  of 
Sentences,  Constructions,  and  Con- 
nectives) ; test  of  coherence  in  par- 
agraphs, 145;  historical  develop- 
ment of,  145;  in  whole  composi- 
tions, 173-179. 


Common  errors,  1,  2 

Commonplaces,  52,  62,  63,  84,  144, 
209. 

Compactness,  64. 

Compositions,  27-39;  kinds  of  com- 
position, 27,  30  (see  Sentences,  Par- 
agraphs, and  Whole  Compositions) ; 
beginning  and  end  of,  33;  sub- 
stance of,  29,  30. 

Confusion,  147. 

Confusion  of  mind,  135,  153,  165, 
209-213,  214 

Connectives,  in  sentences,  105,  108- 
110;  in  paragraphs,  142-145. 

Connotation,  74,  75,  232,  242,  281 ; in 
sentences,  112, 113 ; in  paragraphs, 
147-149;  in  whole  compositions, 
191;  in  secret  of  force,  242,  270, 
271. 

Construction,  in  sentences,  105,  107, 
108  (see  Coherence) ; in  paragraphs, 
137-142;  in  whole  compositions, 
174,  175. 

Conversation,  122. 

Co-ordination,  109,  145. 

Creative  imagination,  7,  40, 212,  277. 


Daily  writing,  265,  269. 

Definition,  221,  222. 

Denotation,  74,  75,  232,  239,  281; 
in  sentences,  112,  113;  in  para- 
graphs, 147-149 ; in  whole  composi- 
tions, 191;  secret  of  clearness,  233. 


314 


INDEX. 


Description,  216-220. 
Dictionaries,  16,  20,  26,  51,  67. 
Diffuseness,  64-66. 


Effects,  55,  56,  58,  60,  67,  85,  89, 
111,  112,  146-149,  162,  190,  191, 
230. 

Elegance,  8,  194,  272-307;  defined, 
272,  275-277,  282;  Addisonian,  274, 
297 ; a relative  quality.  289-292. 

Elements  of  style,  10-39,  150,  151, 
189,  191,  192,  239  (see  Words,  Sen- 
tences, Paragraphs,  Whole  Compo- 
sitions); relation  of  elements  and 
qualities,  214;  summary  of,  191, 
192. 

Emphasis,  82,  83,  100,  102. 

English  language,  15,  36,  56,  88. 

Etymology,  56. 

Euphemism,  296. 

Eye  and  ear,  32,  82,  83,  99,  100. 

Fashions,  23. 

Faults  of  genius,  197. 

Figures  of  speech,  245-261. 

Fine  art,  131,  142. 

Force,  8,  194,  234-271 ; defined,  236, 
239 ; a relative  quality,  236,  238. 


General  principles,  2. 

General  terms,  214,  216. 

Good  use,  13-26,  28,  35-39,  42,  69, 
77,  82,  83,  99,  114,  135,  141,  150, 
151,  152,  189,  190,  212,  222  (see 
Reputable,  National,  and  Present 
Use) ; violations  of,  43-50  (see  Bar- 
barisms, Improprieties,  and  Sole- 
cisms); good  sense,  78,  120,  131, 
142. 

Grammar,  77  ; English,  77-81. 

Grammars,  16,  20,  26. 


Habits,  of  expression,  268;  of 
thought,  63,  66,  85,  114. 


Idealism,  305-307. 

Idioms,  78-80. 

Immaterial  realities,  6 

Impressions,  234-236. 

Improprieties,  44,  47-50,  81. 

Inadequacy  of  expression,  278-280, 
302-305.“ 

Indecision,  147. 

Individuality,  264. 

Inelegance,  293-297. 

Inflections,  36,  88. 

Language,  13,  76, 114;  written  and 
spoken,  16,  38,  82,  93,  127. 

Languages,  dead,  18-20. 

Letters,  11. 

Letter-writing,  25. 

Mass,  principle  of,  29,  32-34,  96; 
conflict  with  coherence,  179,  180; 
of  sentences,  99-103;  test  of  mass 
of  sentences,  100;  historical  devel- 
opment of,  100;  of  paragraphs, 
126-134;  test  of  mass  of  para- 
graphs, 128-130;  historical  devel- 
opment of  mass  of  paragraphs,  133 ; 
in  whole  compositions,  162-173. 

Mastery,  298. 

Material  symbols,  7,  32,  213. 

Mechanical  devices,  165,  173,  211. 

Metaphors,  61;  mixed,  260  (see  Fig- 
ures of  Speech). 

Method,  201,  210,  212,  230,  231. 

Misunderstanding,  68,  69. 

Monotony,  120. 

Names,  41. 

Narrative,  163. 

National  use,  21,  22. 

Obscurity,  206-209,  223-228. 

Order  of  words,  36,  37,  104,  105 ; of 
sentences,  135-137 ; of  paragraphs, 
173,  174. 


INDEX. 


315 


Paragraphs,  27,  32,  38,  39,  114- 
149,  229;  defined,  119;  beginnings 
and  ends  of,  127,  180;  kinds  of, 
121. 

Parallel  construction . See  Construc- 
tions. 

Perception,  262,  265,  299-301. 

Plan  of  this  book,  39,  186-189. 

Planning  of  compositions,  116,  153- 
157,  186;  value  of  care  in,  181- 
185,  229,  230. 

Platitudes,  204. 

Poetry,  299-301. 

Practical  men,  228. 

Present  use,  21,  23. 

Prevision,  117,  126,  131. 

Principles  of  composition,  28-39,  180, 
189,  190,  192,  229  (see  Unity,  Mass, 
and  Coherence);  in  sentences,  96- 
111;  in  paragraphs,  122-149;  in 
whole  compositions,  151-192;  in 
practice,  224,  227. 

Problems,  136,  190. 

Proper  names,  14,  72-74. 

Proportions  of  compositions,  132. 

Punctuation,  82. 

Purposes  and  methods,  292-295. 

Qualities  of  style,  7-10,  17,  40, 193, 
302.  See  Clearness,  Force,  and 
Elegance. 

Rant,  271. 

Reminiscence,  203. 

Reputable  use,  21. 

Revision,  116. 

Rhetoric,  2;  textbooks  of,  28. 

Self-culture,  262. 

Sentences,  27,  32,  37,  39,  76-113, 
222,  229;  defined,  76;  beginning 
and  end  of,  100,  102 ; kinds  of,  83- 
OS  ; long  and  short,  84,  89,  92,  94, 
98,  223,  224;  periodic  and  loose, 
84-89,  92,  94,  98  ; balanced,  95. 


Simplicity,  198-200. 

Solecisms,  78,  81. 

Specific  terms,  216-220. 

Spencer’s  “Philosophy  of  Style,” 

86. 

Style,  3,  7,  39  (see  Elements  and 
Qualities),  39;  a conflict  between 
usage  and  principle,  39,  99,  102 ; 
historical  development  of  English, 
90-95,  98,  100,  110,  126,  133;  peri- 
odic and  loose,  85-87. 

Subject,  shift  of,  108, 141,  143. 

Subordination,  109. 

Suggestions,  71,  72. 

Summaries,  156, 177,  178. 

Supreme  works  of  art,  198. 

Sympathy,  261-270,  292;  with  sub- 
jects, 262-267 ; with  readers,  267. 


Technical  writing,  225. 

Thought  and  emotion,  4,  67,  212. 

Titles,  157,  214-216. 

Transitions,  178. 

Tropes,  245. 

Unity,  principle  of,  29-32,  96;  of 
sentence,  30,  32,  96-99.  224;  test 
of  unity  of  sentence,  98;  of  para- 
graph, 30,  32,  122-126;  test  of  uni- 
ty of  paragraph,  124;  violation  of 
unity  of  paragraph,  125 ; of  whole 
composition,  30,  32,  155-162;  test 
of  unity  of  whole  composition,  155 ; 
disregard  of  unity  of  whole  compo- 
sition, 159-161. 

Use.  See  Good  Use. 


Vagueness,  202-204. 

Vocabulary,  50-52,  67. 

Voice,  shift  of,  108,  141. 

Weakening  of  style,  270. 

Whole  compositions,  27,  32,  38,  39, 
150-192,  229;  beginnings  of,  166- 


316 


INDEX. 


168;  ends  of,  168, 172;  proportions 
of,  169-172. 

Words,  13-26,  39,  41-75 ; big  and  lit- 
tle, 52,  57,  62 ; discrepancy  between 
words  and  ideas,  67-75,  112,  147, 
222;  figurative  and  literal,  52,  60, 
62;  foreign,  45;  general  and  spe- 


cific, 52,  58-60,  62;  kinds  of,  50-63; 
Latin  and  Saxon,  52,  53-57,  62; 
new  and  slang,  45 ; number  of,  63- 
66,  218 ; obsolete,  45 ; order  of,  36, 
37,  104,  105  (see  Coherence); 
written  words,  7,  32,  213. 


